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By 

ROBERT  NATHAN 
Author  of  "Peter  Kindred" 


New  York 

Robert  M.  McBride  &  Company 
1921 


C  o'^y  r  j  glhrt ,:     1921,      by 
ROBERT*  '&:  'frfcBRiDE    &    Co. 


Second    Printing 
December,  1921 


Printed       in       the 
United     States     of     America 


Published,        1921 


TO  D.  M.  N.,  AND  TO  OUR 
FRIEND     HERBERT     FEIS 


494506 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTEE  PAGE 

I     MRS.  GRUMBLE      ......  1 

II     SCHOOL  LETS  OUT      .      .      .      .      «  22 

III     THE  BARLYS    .      .      .      .      *      .      .  35 

IV     MR.  JEMINY  BUILDS  A  HOUSE  OUT 

OF  BOXES .55 

V     RAIN    111 74 

VI     HARVEST 97 

VII     MRS.  GRUMBLE  GOES  TO  THE  FAIR     .  116 
VIII     THE  TURN  OF  THE  YEAR      .      .      .  131 
IX     THE  SCHOOLMASTER  LEAVES  HILLS- 
BORO,   His   WORK   THERE    SEEM 
INGLY  AT  AN  END  .      .      .      «      .  143 
X     BUT  HE  is  SOUGHT  AFTER  ALL  .      .  147 

XI  AND  is  FOUND  IN  GOOD  HANDS  ,      .  165 

XII  MRS.    WICKET  185 


MRS. 
GRUMBLE 

ON  Sunday  the  church  bells  of 
Hillsboro  rang  out  across  the 
ripening  fields  with  a  grave  and 
holy  sound,  and  again  at  evening  knocked 
faintly,  with  quiet  sorrow,  at  doors  where 
children  watched  for  the  first  star,  to  make 
their  wishes.  Night  came,  and  to  the  croak 
ing  of  frogs,  the  moon  rose  over  Barly  Hill. 
In  the  early  morning  the  grass,  still  wet  with 
dew,  chilled  the  bare  toes  of  urchins  on  their 
way  to  school  where,  until  four  o'clock,  the 
tranquil  voice  of  Mr.  Jeminy  disputed  with 
the  hum  of  bees,  and  the  far  off  clink  of  the 
blacksmith's  forge  in  the  village. 

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At  four  o'clock  Mr.  Jeminy,  with  a  sigh, 
gathered  his  books  together.  He  sighed  be 
cause  he  was  old,  and  because  the  day's  work 
was  done.  He  arose  from  his  seat,  and 
taking  up  his  stick,  passed  out  between  the 
benches  and  went  slowly  down  the  road. 

It  was  a  warm  spring  day;  the  air  was 
drowsy  and  filled  with  the  scent  of  flowers. 
A  thrush  sang  in  the  woods,  where  Mr. 
Jeminy  heard  before  him  the  light  voices  of 
children.  He  thought:  "How  happy  they 
are."  And  he  smiled  at  his  own  fancies 
which,  like  himself,  were  timid  and  kind. 

But  gradually,  as  the  afternoon  shadows 
began  to  lengthen,  he  grew  sad.  It  seemed 
to  him  as  if  the  world,  strange  and  contrary 
during  the  day,  were  again  as  it  used  to  be 
when  he  was  young. 

When  he  crossed  the  wooden  bridge  over 
Barly  Water,  the  minnows,  frightened,  fled 

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MRS.  GRUMBLE 


away  in  shoals.  Mr.  Jeminy  turned  down 
toward  the  village,  where  he  had  an  errand 
to  attend  to.  As  his  footsteps  died  away, 
the  minnows  swam  back  again,  as  though 
nothing  had  happened.  One,  larger  than 
the  rest,  found  a  piece  of  bread  which  had 
fallen  into  the  water.  "This  is  my  bread," 
he  said,  and  gazed  angrily  at  his  friends,  who 
were  trying  to  bite  him.  "I  deserve  this 
bread,"  he  added. 

Old  Mr.  Frye  kept  the  general  store  in 
Hillsboro,  and  ran  the  post  office.  It  was 
easy  to  see  that  he  was  an  honest  man;  he 
kept  his  shop  tidy,  and  was  sour  to  every 
body.  Through  his  square  spectacles  he 
saw  his  neighbors  in  the  form  of  fruits, 
vegetables,  stick  pins,  and  pieces  of  calico. 
Of  Mr.  Jeminy  he  used  to  say:  "Sweet 
apples,  but  small,  very  small;  small  and 
sweet." 

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"Yes,"  said  Farmer  Early,  "but  just  tell 
me,  who  wants  small  apples?" 

Mr.  Frye  nodded  his  head.  "Ah,  that's 
it,"  he  agreed. 

At  that  moment  Mr.  Jeminy  himself  en 
tered  the  store.  "I'd  like  to  buy  a  pencil," 
he  said.  "The  pencil  I  have  in  mind,"  he 
explained,  "is  soft,  and  writes  easily,  but  has 


no  eraser." 


"There  you  are,"  said  the  storekeeper; 
"that's  five  cents." 

"I  used  to  pay  four,"  said  Mr.  Jeminy, 
looking  for  the  extra  penny. 

"Well,  perhaps  you  did,"  said  Mr.  Frye, 
"but  prices  are  very  high  now."  And  he 
moved  away  to  register  the  sale. 

Farmer  Barly,  who  was  a  member  of  the 
school  board,  cleared  his  throat,  and  blew  on 
his  nose.  "Hem,"  he  remarked.  "Good- 
day." 

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MRS.  GRUMBLE 


"Good-day/'  said  Mr.  Jeminy  politely, 
and  went  out  of  the  store  with  his  pencil. 

Left  to  themselves,  Mr.  Frye  and  Mr. 
Early  began  to  discuss  him.  "Jeminy  is 
growing  old,"  said  Mr.  Frye,  with  a  shake 
of  his  head. 

Mr.  Barly,  although  stupid,  liked  to  be 
direct.  "I  was  brought  up  on  plus  and 
minus,"  he  said,  "and  I've  yet  to  meet  the 
man  who  can  get  the  better  of  me.  Now 
what  do  you  think  of  that,  Mr.  Frye?" 

Mr.  Frye  looked  up,  down,  and  around; 
then  he  began  to  polish  his  spectacles.  But 
he  only  said,  "There's  some  good  in  that." 

"There  is  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Barly,  closing 
one  eye,  and  nodding  his  head  a  number  of 
times.  "There  is  indeed.  But  those  days 
are  over,  Mr.  Frye.  When  I  was  a  child  I 
had  the  fear  of  God  put  into  me.  It  was 
put  into  me  with  a  birch  rod.  But  nowa- 

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days,  Mr.  Frye,  the  children  neglect  their 
sums,  and  grow  up  wild  as  nettles.  I  don't 
know  what  they're  learning  nowadays." 
And  he  blew  his  nose  again,  as  though  to  say, 
"What  a  pity." 

"Ah,"  said  Mr.  Frye,  wisely,  "there's  no 
good  in  that." 

Mr.  Jeminy  knew  his  own  faults,  and 
what  was  expected  of  him :  he  was  not  severe 
enough.  As  he  walked  home  that  evening, 
he  said  to  himself:  "I  must  be  more  severe; 
my  pupils  tease  each  other  almost  under  my 
nose.  To-day  as  I  wrote  sums  on  the  black 
board,  I  watched  out  of  the  corner  of  my 
eye.  .  .  .  Still,  a  tweaked  ear  is  soon 
mended.  And  it's  true  that  when  they 
learn  to  add  and  subtract,  they  will  do  each 
other  more  harm." 

The  schoolmaster  lived  in  a  cottage  on  the 
hill  overlooking  the  village.  He  lived  alone, 

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MRS.  GRUMBLE 


except  for  Mrs.  Grumble,  who  kept  house 
for  him,  and  managed  his  affairs.  Al 
though  they  were  simple,  and  easy  to  man 
age,  they  afforded  her  endless  opportunities 
for  complaint.  She  was  never  so  happy  as 
when  nothing  suited  her.  Then  she  carried 
her  broom  into  Mr.  Jeminy's  study,  and 
looked  around  her  with  a  gloomy  air.  "No, 
really,  it's  impossible  to  go  on  this  way,"  she 
would  say,  and  sweep  Mr.  Jeminy,  his  books 
and  his  papers,  out  of  doors. 

There,  in  the  company  of  Boethius,  he 
often  considered  the  world,  and  watched, 
from  above,  the  gradual  life  of  the  village. 
He  heard  the  occasional  tonk  of  cows  on  the 
hillside,  the  creak  of  a  cart  on  the  road,  the 
faint  sound  of  voices,  blown  by  the  wind. 
From  his  threshold  he  saw  the  afternoon  fade 
into  evening,  and  night  look  down  across 
the  hills,  among  the  stars.  He  saw  the 

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lights  come  out  in  the  valley,  one  by  one 
through  the  mist,  smelled  the  fresh,  sweet  air 
of  evening;  and  promptly  each  night  at 
seven,  far  off  and  sad,  rolling  among  the 
hills,  he  heard  the  ghostly  hooting  of  the 
night  freight,  leaving  Milford  Junction. 

"Here,"  he  said  to  himself,  "within  this 
circle  of  hills,  is  to  be  found  faith,  virtue, 
passion,  and  good  sense.  In  this  valley 
youth  is  not  without  courage,  or  age  without 
wisdom.  Yet  age,  although  wise,  is  full  of 


sorrow." 


While  he  was  musing  in  this  vein,  the  odor 
of  frying  bacon  from  the  kitchen,  warmed 
his  nose.  So  he  was  not  surprised  to  see 
Mrs.  Grumble  appear  in  the  doorway  soon 
afterward.  "Your  supper  is  ready,"  she 
said;  "if  you  don't  come  in  at  once  it  will 
grow  cold." 

For  supper,  Mr.  Jeminy  had  a  bowl  of 
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MRS.  GRUMBLE 


soup,  a  glass  of  milk,  bacon,  potatoes,  and  a 
loaf  of  bread.  When  Mrs.  Grumble  was 
seated,  he  bent  his  head,  and  said:  "Let  us 
give  thanks  to  God  for  this  manifestation  of 
His  bounty." 

During  the  meal  Mrs.  Grumble  was 
silent.  But  Mr.  Jeminy  could  see  that  she 
had  something  important  to  say.  At  last 
she  remarked,  "As  I  was  on  my  way  to  the 
village,  I  met  Mrs.  Early.  She  said, 
*  You'll  have  to  buy  your  own  milk  after  this, 
Mrs.  Grumble.'  I  just  stood  and  looked 
at  her." 

Mr.  Jeminy  nodded  his  head.  "I  am  not 
surprised,"  he  said.  And,  indeed,  it  did  not 
surprise  him.  Now  that  the  war  was  over, 
the  neighbors  no  longer  came  to  his  cottage 
with  gifts  of  vegetables,  fruit,  and  milk. 

Mrs.  Grumble  looked  at  him  thought 
fully,  and  while  she  washed  the  plates  at  the 

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kitchen  sink,  sighed  from  the  bottom  of  her 
soul.  Although  she  liked  Mr.  Jeminy  who, 
she  declared,  was  a  good  man,  she  felt, 
nevertheless,  that  in  his  company  her  talents 
were  wasted.  "It  is  impossible  to  talk  to 
Mr.  Jeminy,"  she  told  Miss  Beal,  the  dress 
maker,  "because  he  talks  so  much." 

It  was  true;  Mr.  Jeminy  liked  to  talk  a 
great  deal.  But  his  conversation,  which  was 
often  about  such  people  as  St.  Francis,  or 
Plotinus,  did  not  seem  very  lively  to  Mrs. 
Grumble.  "He  talks  about  nothing  but  the 
dead,"  she  said  to  Miss  Beal;  "mostly 
heathen." 

"No,"  said  Miss  Beal.  "How  aggrava 
ting." 

Now,  Mr.  Jeminy,  unheeding  the  sighs 

of  his  housekeeper,  continued:  "But  after 

all,  I  would  not  change  places  with  Farmer 

Barly.     For  riches  are  a  source  of  trouble, 

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MRS.  GRUMBLE 


Mrs.  Grumble;  they  crowd  love  out  of  the 
heart.  A  man  is  only  to  be  envied  who  de 
sires  little." 

"It  is  always  the  same,"  said  Mrs.  Grum 
ble;  "the  rich  have  their  pleasures,  and  the 
poor  people  their  sorrows." 

"That,"  said  Mr.  Jeminy,  "is  the  mistake 
of  ignorance.  For  Epictetus  was  a  slave, 
and  Saint  Peter  was  a  fisherman.  They 
were  poor;  but  they  did  not  consider  them 
selves  unfortunate.  More  to  be  pitied  than 
either  Saint  Peter  or  Epictetus,  was  Croe 
sus,  King  of  Lydia,  who  was  probably  not 
as  rich  as  Mr.  Gary.  But  he  knew  how  to 
use  his  wealth.  Therefore  he  was  all  the 
more  disappointed  when  it  was  taken  away 
from  him  by  Cyrus,  the  Persian.  No,  Mrs. 
Grumble,  what  you  can  lose  is  no  great  good 
to  any  one. 

"If  you  wish,"  he  added,  "I  will  dry  the 
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dishes,  and  you  can  spend  the  evening  in  the 
village." 

As  he  stood  above  the  sink,  rubbing  the 
dishes  with  a  damp  cloth,  he  thought: 
"When  I  die,  I  should  like  it  said  of  me: 
By  his  own  efforts,  he  remained  a  poor 
man."  And  he  stood  still,  the  dishtowel  in 
his  hand,  thinking  of  that  wealthy  iron 
master,  whose  epitaph  is  said  to  read: 
Here  lies  a  man  who  knew  how  to  enlist  in 
his  service  better  men  than  himself. 

When  the  dishes  were  dried,  Mr.  Jeminy 
retired  to  his  den.  This  little  room,  from 
whose  windows  it  was  possible  to  see  the  sky 
above  Barry  Hill,  blue  as  a  cornflower, 
boasted  a  desk,  an  old  leather  chair,  arid 
several  shelves  of  books,  among  them 
volumes  of  history  and  travel,  a  King 
James'  Bible,  Arrian's  Epictetus,  Sabatier's 
life  of  Saint  Francis,  the  Meditations  of 
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MRS.  GRUMBLE 


Antoninus,  bound  in  paper,  and  a  Jervas 
translation  of  Don  Quixote.  Here  Mr. 
Jeminy  was  at  home;  in  the  evening  he 
smoked  his  pipe,  and  read  from  the  pages  of 
Cervantes,  whose  humor,  gentle  and  austere, 
comforted  his  mind  so  often  vexed  hy  the 
negligence  of  his  pupils. 

On  the  evening  of  which  I  am  speaking, 
Mr.  Jeminy  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his 
pipe,  and  taking  from  his  desk  a  bundle  of 
papers,  began  to  correct  his  pupils'  ex 
ercises.  He  was  still  engaged  at  this  task 
when  Mr.  Tomkins  came  to  call. 

"A  fine  evening,"  said  Mr.  Tomkins  from 
the  doorway. 

"Come  in,  William,"  cried  Mr.  Jeminy, 
"come  in.  A  fine  evening,  indeed.  Well, 
this  is  very  nice,  I  must  say." 

Mr.  Tomkins  was  older  than  Mr.  Jeminy. 
His  once  great  frame  was  dried  and  bent; 
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his  face  was  lined  with  a  thousand  wrinkles, 
and  his  lips  were  drawn  tight  under  the 
nose,  until  nose  and  chin  almost  met.  But 
his  eyes  were  bright  and  active.  Now  he 
sat  in  Mr.  Jeminy's  study,  his  large, 
knobbly  hands,  brown  and  withered  as 
leaves  in  autumn,  grasping  his  hat. 

"Another  year,  Jeminy,"  he  said,  in  a 
voice  shrill  with  age,  "another  year.  Time 
to  shingle  old  man  Crabbe's  roof  again.  I'm 
spry  yet."  And  resting  a  lean  finger  along 
side  his  nose,  he  gave  sound  to  a  laugh  like 
a  peal  of  broken  bells. 

In  his  old  age  Mr.  Tomkins  was  still  agile ; 
he  crawled  out  on  a  roof,  ripped  up  rotted 
shingles,  and  put  down  new  ones  in  their 
place.  To  see  him  climb  to  the  top  of  a 
ladder,  filled  Mr.  Jeminy  with  anxiety. 

"You'll  die,"  he  said,  "with  a  hammer  in 
your  hand." 

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MRS.  GRUMBLE 


"Then,"  said  Mr.  Tomkins,  "I'll  die  as 
I've  lived." 

"That's  strange  enough,"  said  Mr.  Jem- 
iny,  "when  you  come  to  think  of  it.  For 
men  are  born  into  this  world  hungry  and 
crying.  But  they  die  in  silence  and  slip 
away  without  touching  anything." 

Mr.  Tomkins  cleared  his  throat,  and 
watched  his  fingers  run  around  his  hat's 
brim.  He  wanted  to  tell  Mr.  Jeminy  some 
news;  but  it  occurred  to  him  that  it  was  no 
more  than  a  rumor.  Finally  he  said: 
"There's  a  new  school-ma'am  over  to  North 
Adams."  He  cocked  his  head  sidewise  to 
look  at  the  schoolmaster.  "She  knows 
more  than  you,  Jeminy,"  he  said. 

Mr.  Jeminy  sat  bowed  and  still,  his  hands 

folded  in  his  lap.     He  remembered  how  he 

had  come  to  Hillsboro  thirty  years  before,  a 

young  man  full  of  plans  and  fancies.     He 

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was  soon  to  learn  that  what  had  been  good 
enough  for  Great  Grandfather  Ploughman, 
was  thought  to  be  good  enough  for  his 
grandson,  also.  Mr.  Jeminy  remained  in 
Hillsboro,  at  first  out  of  hope,  later  out  of 
habit.  At  last  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  Hills 
boro  were  his  home.  "Where  else  should  I 
go?"  he  had  asked  himself.  "Here  is  all  I 
have  in  the  world.  Here  are  my  only 
friends.  Well,  after  all,"  he  said  to  himself 
more  than  once,  "I  am  not  wasted  here, 
exactly."  And  he  tried  to  comfort  himself 
with  this  reflection. 

He  had  started  out  to  build  a  new  school 
in  the  wilderness.  "I  shall  teach  my  pupils 
something  more  than  plus  and  minus,"  he 
declared.  He  remembered  a  little  verse  he 
used  to  sing  in  those  days: 

Laws,  manuals, 

And  texts  incline  us 
16 


MRS.  GRUMBLE 


To  cheat  with  plus 
And  rob  with  minus. 

But  it  had  all  slipped  away,  like  sand 
through  his  fingers.  Now  he  hoped  to  find 
one  child  to  whom  he  could  say  what  was 
in  his  mind. 

One  by  one  the  brighter  boys  had  drifted 
off  to  the  county  schools,  leaving  the  little 
schoolhouse  to  the  dull  and  to  the  young. 
Some  were  taken  out  of  classes  early,  and 
added,  like  another  pig,  to  the  farms.  Girls, 
when  they  were  old  enough,  were  kept  at 
home  to  help  their  mothers;  after  a  while 
they,  too,  married;  then  their  education  was 
over.  In  the  winter  they  nailed  the  win 
dows  shut;  in  the  summer  they  worked  with 
the  men,  hoarded  their  pennies,  and  prayed 
to  God  at  first,  but  only  wished  at  last,  to  do 
better  than  their  neighbors. 

Of  all  whom  Mr.  Jeminy  had  taught  read- 
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ing,  writing  and  arithmetic,  not  one  was 
either  better  or  happier  than  in  childhood. 

"Not  one,"  said  Mr.  Jemmy,  "is  tidy  of 
mind,  or  humble  of  heart.  Not  one  has 
learned  to  be  happy  in  poverty,  or  gentle  in 
good  fortune." 

"There's  no  poverty  to-day,"  said  Mr. 
Tomkins  simply.  It  really  seemed  to  him 
as  though  every  one  were  well  off,  because 
the  war  was  over. 

"There  is  more  poverty  to-day  than  ever 
before,"  said  Mr.  Jeminy. 

"Hm,"  said  Mr.  Tomkins. 

"Last  fall,"  said  Mr.  Jeminy,  "Sara 
Barly  and  Mrs.  Grumble  helped  each  other 
put  up  vegetables.  And  Anna  Barly  came 
to  my  cottage,  holding  out  her  apron,  full 
of  apples." 

"My  wife,  too,"  said  Mr.  Tomkins,  "put 
up  a  great  many  vegetables." 
18 


MRS.  GRUMBLE 


"But  to-day,"  said  Mr.  Jeminy,  "Mrs. 
Early  and  Mrs.  Grumble  pass  each  other 
without  speaking.  And  because  we  are  no 
longer  at  war,  the  bit  of  land  belonging  to 
Ezra  Adams,  where,  last  spring,  Mrs. 
Wicket  planted  her  rows  of  corn,  is  left  to 
grow  its  mouthful  of  hay,  to  sell  to  Mr. 
Frye." 

"Ah,"  said  Mr.  Tomkins  wisely,  "that's 
it.  Well,  Mrs.  Wicket,  now.  Still,"  he 
added,  "he'll  have  a  lot  of  nettles  in  that 
hay." 

"The  rich,"  Mr.  Jeminy  continued,  "quar 
rel  with  the  poor,  and  the  poor,  by  way  of 
answer,  with  rich  and  poor  alike.  And  rich 
or  poor,  every  man  reaches  for  more,  like  a 
child  at  table.  That  is  why,  William,  there 
is  poverty  to-day;  poverty  of  the  heart,  of 
the  mind,  and  of  the  spirit. 

"And  yet,"  he  added  stoutly  a  moment 
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later,  "I'll  not  deny  there  is  plenty  of  light ; 
yes,  we  are  wise  enough,  there  is  love  in  our 
hearts  .  .  .  Perhaps,  William,  heaven  will 
be  found  when  old  men  like  you  and  me,  who 
have  lost  our  way,  are  dead." 

"Lost  our  way?"  quavered  Mr.  Tomkins, 
"lost  our  way?  What  are  you  talking 
about,  Jeminy?" 

But  the  fire,  burning  so  brightly  before, 
was  almost  out.  "Youth,"  said  Mr.  Jeminy 
sadly  .  .  .  And  he  sat  quite  still,  staring 
straight  ahead  of  him. 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Tomkins,  "I'll  be  step 
ping  on  home."  Clapping  his  hat  somewhat 
uncertainly  onto  his  head,  he  rose  to  go.  Mr. 
Jeminy  accompanied  him  to  the  door. 
"Good-night,"  he  said. 

"Good-night,"  said  Mr.  Tomkins.  And 
off  he  went  along  the  path,  to  tell  his  wife, 
as  he  got  into  bed,  that  she  was  a  lucky 
20 


MRS.  GRUMBLE 


woman.  But  Mr.  Jeminy  stood  in  the  door 
way,  gazing  out  across  the  hills,  like  David 
over  Hebron.  Below  him  the  last  late  lan 
terns  of  the  village  burned  in  the  valley.  He 
heard  the  shrill  kreef  kreedn  kreedn  of  the 
tree  frogs,  the  cheep  of  crickets,  the  lonely 
barking  of  a  dog,  ghostly  and  far  away; 
he  breathed  the  air  of  night,  cold,  and  sweet 
with  honeysuckle.  Age  was  in  bed;  only 
the  young  moved  and  whispered  in  the 
shadows;  youth,  obscure  and  immortal;  love 
and  hope,  love  and  sorrow.  From  the 
meadows  ascended  the  choir  of  cicada:  katy 
did,  katy  didn't,  katy  did.  .  .  . 
Mr.  Jeminy  turned  and  went  indoors. 


21 


II 

SCHOOL 
LETS  OUT 

THE  next  day  being  a  holiday,  Mr. 
Jeminy     lay     in     bed,     watching, 
through  his  window,  the  branches 
of  an  oak  tree,  which  is  last  of  all  to  leaf. 
When  he  finally  arose,  the  morning  was 
already  bright  and  hot;   the  rooms   were 
swept;  all  was  in  order. 

Later  in  the  day  he  followed  Mrs. 
Grumble  to  the  schoolhouse,  carrying  a  pail, 
soap,  a  scrubbing  brush,  and  a  broom. 
After  Mr.  Jeminy  had  filled  the  pail  with 
water  at  the  school  pump,  Mrs.  Grumble 
got  down  on  her  knees,  and  began  to  scrub 
the  floor.  The  schoolmaster  went  ahead 
22 


SCHOOL  LETS  OUT 


with  the  broom.  "Sweep  in  all  the  corners," 
she  said.  "For,"  she  added,  "it's  in  the 
corners  one  finds  everything."  As  she 
spoke,  the  brush,  under  her  freckled  hands, 
pushed  forward  a  wave  of  soapy  water, 
edged  with  foam,  like  the  sea. 

Mr.  Jeminy  swept  up  and  down  with  a 
sort  of  solemn  joy;  he  even  took  pride  in 
the  little  mountain  of  brown  dirt  he  had 
collected  with  his  broom,  and  watched  it 
leap  across  the  threshold  with  regret.  He 
would  have  liked  to  keep  it.  ...  Then  he 
could  have  said,  "Well,  at  least,  I  took  all 
this  dirt  from  under  the  desks." 

The  truth  is  that  Mr.  Jeminy  was  not  a 
very  good  teacher.  Although,  as  a  young 
man,  he  had  read,  in  Latin  and  Greek,  the 
work  of  Stoics,  Gnostics,  and  Fathers  of 
the  Church,  and  although  he  had  opinions 
about  everything,  he  was  unable  to  teach  his 
23 


AUTUMN 


pupils  what  they  wished  to  learn,  and  they, 
in  turn,  were  unable  to  understand  what  he 
wanted  them  to  know.  But  that  was  not 
entirely  his  fault,  for  they  came  to  school 
with  such  questions  as:  "How  far  is  a 
thousand  miles?" 

"It  is  the  distance  between  youth  and 
age,"  said  Mr.  Jeminy.  Then  the  children 
would  start  to  laugh. 

"A  thousand  miles,"  he  would  begin.  .  .  . 

By  the  time  he  had  explained  it,  they 
were  interested  in  something  else. 

This  summer  morning,  a  dusty  fall  of  sun 
light  filled  the  little  schoolroom  with  dancing 
golden  motes.  It  seemed  to  Mr.  Jeminy 
that  he  heard  the  voices  of  innumerable 
children  whispering  together;  and  it  seemed 
to  him  that  one  voice,  sweeter  than  all  the 
rest,  spoke  in  his  own  heart.  "Jeminy,"  it 
24 


SCHOOL  LETS  OUT 


said,  "Jeminy,  what  have  you  taught  my 
children?" 

Mr.  Jeminy  answered:  "I  have  taught 
them  to  read  the  works  of  celebrated  men, 
and  to  cheat  each  other  with  plus  and 
minus." 

"Ah,"  said  another  voice,  with  a  dry 
chuckle  like  salt  shaken  in  a  saltcellar,  "well, 
that's  good." 

"Who  speaks?"  cried  Mr.  Jeminy. 

"What,"  exclaimed  the  voice,  "don't  you 
know  me,  old  friend?  I  am  plus  and  minus ; 
I  am  weights  and  measures.  .  .  ." 

"Lord  ha'  mercy,"  cried  Mrs.  Grumble 
from  the  floor,  "have  you  gone  mad?  What 
ever  are  you  doing,  standing  there,  with 
your  mouth  open?" 

"Eh!"  said  Mr.  Jeminy,  stupidly.  "I  was 
dreaming." 

25 


AUTUMN 


A  red  squirrel  sped  across  the  path,  and 
stopped  a  moment  in  the  doorway,  his  tail 
arched  above  his  back,  his  bright,  black 
eyes  peering  without  envy  at  Mrs.  Grumble, 
as  she  bent  above  the  pail  of  soap-suds. 
Then,  with  a  flirt  of  his  tail,  he  hurried  away, 
to  hide  from  other  squirrels  the  nuts,  seeds, 
and  acorns  strewn  by  the  winds  of  the 
autumn  impartially  over  the  earth. 

In  the  afternoon,  Mr.  Jeminy  went  into 
his  garden,  and  began  to  measure  off  rows 
of  vegetables.  "Two  rows  of  beans,"  he 
said,  "and  two  of  radishes ;  they  grow  any 
where.  I'll  get  Crabbe  to  give  me  onion 
sets,  cabbages,  and  tomato  plants.  Two 
rows  of  peas,  and  one  of  lettuce ;  I  must  have 
fine  soil  for  my  lettuce,  and  I  must  remem 
ber  to  plant  my  peas  deeply.  A  row  of 
beets.  .  .  ." 

"Where,"  said  Mrs.  Grumble,  who  stood 
26 


SCHOOL  LETS  OUT 


beside  him,  holding  the  hoe,  "are  you  going 
to  plant  squash?" 

".  .  .  and  carrots,"  continued  Mr.  Jem- 
iny  hurriedly.  .  .  . 

"We  must  certainly  have  a  few  hills  of 
squash,"  said  Mrs.  Grumble  firmly. 

"Oh,"  said  Mr.  Jeminy,  "squash.  .  .  ." 
He  had  left  it  out  on  purpose,  because  he 
disliked  it.  "You  see,"  he  said  finally,  look 
ing  about  him  artlessly,  "there's  no  more 


room." 


"Go  away,"  said  Mrs.  Grumble. 

From  his  seat  under  a  tree,  to  which  he 
had  retired,  Mr.  Jeminy  watched  Mrs. 
Grumble  mark  the  rows,  hoe  the  straight, 
shallow  furrows,  drop  in  the  seeds,  and 
cover  them  with  earth  again.  As  he  watched, 
half  in  indignation,  he  thought:  "Thus,  in 
other  times,  Ceres  sowed  the  earth  with  seed, 
and,  like  Mrs.  Grumble,  planted  my  garden 
27 


AUTUMN 


with  squash.  I  would  have  asked  her  rather 
to  sow  melons  here."  Just  then  Mrs. 
Grumble  came  to  the  edge  of  the  vegetable 
garden. 

"Seed  potatoes  are  over  three  dollars  a 
bushel,"  she  said:  "it's  hardly  worth  while 
putting  them  in." 

"Then  let's  not  put  any  in,"  Mr.  Jeminy 
said  promptly,  "for  they  are  difficult  to 
weed,  and  when  they  are  grown  you  must 
begin  to  quarrel  with  insects,  for  whose  sake 
alone,  I  almost  think,  they  grow  at  all." 

"The  bugs  fall  off,"  said  Mrs.  Grumble, 
"with  a  good  shaking." 

"Fie,"  said  Mr.  Jeminy,  "how  slovenly. 
It  is  better  to  kill  them  with  lime.  But  it 
is  best  of  all  not  to  tempt  them;  then  there 
is  no  need  to  kill  them." 

And  as  Mrs.  Grumble  made  no  reply,  he 
added: 

28 


SCHOOL  LETS  OUT 


"That  is  something  God  has  not  learned 
yet." 

"Please,"  said  Mrs.  Grumble,  "speak  of 
God  with  more  respect." 

After  supper  Mr.  Jeminy  sat  in  his  study 
reading  the  story  of  Saint  Francis,  the  Poor 
Brother  of  Assisi.  One  day,  soon  after  the 
saint  had  left  behind  him  the  gay  affairs  of 
town,  to  embrace  poverty,  for  Jesus'  sake, 
and  while  he  was  still  living  in  a  hut  of 
green  branches  near  the  little  chapel  of 
Saint  Damian,  he  beheld  his  father  coming 
to  upbraid  him  for  what  he  considered  his 
son's  obstinate  folly.  At  once  Saint  Francis, 
who  was  possessed  of  a  quick  wit,  began  to 
gather  together  a  number  of  old  stones, 
which  he  tried  to  place  one  on  top  of  the 
other.  But  as  fast  as  he  put  them  up,  the 
stones,  broken  and  uneven,  fell  down 
again.  "Aha,"  cried  old  Bernadone,  when 
29 


AUTUMN 


he  came  up  to  his  son,  "I  see  how  you  are 
wasting  your  time.  What  are  you  doing? 
I  am  sick  of  you." 

"I  am  building  the  world  again,"  said 
Francis  mildly;  "it  is  all  the  more  difficult 
because,  for  building  material,  I  can  find 
nothing  but  these  old  stones." 

Mr.  Jeminy  gave  his  pupils  their  final 
examination  in  a  meadow  below  the  school- 
house.  There,  seated  among  the  dandelions, 
with  voices  as  shrill  as  the  crickets,  they 
answered  his  questions,  and  watched  the 
clouds,  like  great  pillows,  sail  on  the  wind 
from  west  to  east.  Under  the  shiny  sky, 
among  the  warm,  sweet  fields,  Mr.  Jeminy 
looked  no  more  important  than  a  robin,  and 
not  much  wiser.  Had  the  children  been 
older,  they  would  have  tried  all  the  more  to 
please  him,  but  because  they  were  young, 
they  laughed,  teased  each  other,  blew  on 
30 


SCHOOL  LETS  OUT 


blades  of  grass,  and  made  dandelion  chains. 
Mr.  Jeminy  examined  the  Fifth  Reader. 
"Bound  the  United  States,"  he  said. 

"On  the  west  by  the  Pacific  Ocean,"  began 
a  red-cheeked  plowboy,  to  whom  the  ocean 
was  no  more  than  hearsay. 

"Where  is  San  Francisco?" 

"San  Francisco  is  in  California." 

"Where  is  Seattle?" 

But  no  one  knew.  Then  Mr.  Jeminy 
thought  to  himself,  "I  am  not  much  wiser 
than  that.  For  I  think  that  Seattle  is  a 
little  black  period  on  a  map.  But  to  them, 
it  is  a  name,  like  China,  or  Jerusalem;  it  is 
here,  or  there,  in  the  stories  they  tell  each 
other.  And  I  believe  their  Seattle  is  full  of 
interesting  people." 

"Well,  then,"  he  said,  "let  me  hear  you 
bound  Vermont." 

That  was  something  everybody  knew. 
31 


AUTUMN 


He  took  the  First  and  Second  Reader 
through  their  sums.  "Two  apples  and  two 
apples  make  .  .  ." 

"Four  apples." 

"And  three  apples  from  eight  apples 
leave  .  .  ." 

"Five  apples." 

When  spelling  time  came,  the  children, 
going  down  to  the  foot,  rolled  over  each 
other  in  the  grass,  with  loud  shouts.  At 
last  only  two  were  left  to  dispute  the  letters 
in  asparagus,  elephant,  constancy,  and 
philosophical.  Then  Mr.  Jeminy  gathered 
the  children  about  him. 

"The  year  is  over,"  he  said,  "and  you  are 
free  to  play  again.  But  do  not  forget  over 
the  summer  what  you  learned  with  so  much 
difficulty  during  the  winter.  Let  me  say 
to  you  who  will  not  return  to  school :  I  have 
taught  you  to  read,  to  write,  to  add  and 
32 


SCHOOL  LETS  OUT 


subtract;  you  know  a  little  history,  a  little 
geography.  Do  not  be  proud  of  that. 
There  are  many  things  to  learn;  but  you 
would  not  be  any  happier  for  having  learned 
them. 

"You  will  ask  me  what  this  has  to  do  with 
you.  I  would  like  to  teach  you  to  be  happy. 
For  happiness  is  not  in  owning  much,  but 
in  owning  little :  love,  and  liberty,  the  work 
of  one's  hands,  fellowship,  and  peace. 
These  things  have  no  value;  they  are  not 
to  be  bought ;  but  they  alone  are  worth  hav 
ing.  Do  not  envy  the  rich  man,  for  cares 
destroy  his  sleep.  And  do  not  ask  the  poor 
man  not  to  sing,  for  song  is  all  he  has. 

"Love  poverty,  and  labor,  the  poverty  of 
love,  the  wealth  of  the  heart. 

"Be  wise  and  honest  farmers. 

"School  is  over.    You  may  go." 

The  children  ran  away,  laughing;  the  boys 
33 


AUTUMN 


hurried  off  together  to  the  swimming  hole, 
their  casual  shouts  stealing  after  them  down 
the  road.  Mr.  Jemmy,  lying  on  his  back 
in  the  grass,  listened  to  them  sadly.  As  the 
voices  grew  fainter  and  fainter,  it  seemed 
to  him  as  if  they  were  saying:  "School  is 
over,  school  is  over."  And  he  thought: 
"They  are  counting  the  seasons.  But  to  the 
old,  the  year  is  never  done." 

Mr.  Frye,  who  had  been  sitting  quietly 
by  the  road  during  Mr.  Jeminy's  little 
speech  to  the  children,  now  got  up,  and 
went  back  to  the  village,  shaking  his  head 
solemnly  with  every  step. 


34 


Ill 

THE 
BARLYS 

THE  two  hired  men  on  Early 's  farm 
rose  in  the  dark  and  crept  down 
stairs.     By  sun-up,  Farmer  Barly 
was  after  them,  in  his  brown  overalls;  he 
came  clumping  into  the  barn,  dusty  with  last 
year's  hay,   and  peered  about  him  in  the 
yellow  light.    He  opened  the  harness  room, 
and  took  out  harness  for  the  farm  wagons; 
he   went   to   ask   if  the   horses   had   been 
watered. 

The  cows  were  in  pasture;  in  the  wagon 

shed  the  two  men,  before  a  tin  basin,  plunged 

their  arms  into  water,  flung  it  on  their  faces, 

and  puffed  and  sighed.    The  shed  was  cold, 

35 


AUTUMN 


and  redolent  of  earth.  Outside,  the  odor  of 
coffee,  drifting  from  the  house,  mingled  in 
the  early  morning  air  with  clover  and  hay, 
cut  in  the  fields,  but  not  yet  stored. 

Anna  Barly,  from  her  room,  heard  her 
mother  moving  in  the  kitchen,  and  sat  up 
in  bed.  The  patch-work  quilt  was  fallen 
on  the  floor,  where  it  lay  as  sleepy  as  its 
mistress.  She  tossed  her  hair  back  from  her 
face;  it  spread  broad  and  gold  across  her 
shoulders,  and  the  wide  sleeves  of  her  night 
dress,  falling  down  her  arms,  bared  her 
round,  brown  elbows  as  she  caught  it  up 
again. 

In  the  kitchen,  the  two  hired  men,  their 
faces  wet  and  clean,  poured  sugar  over  their 
lettuce,  and  talked  with  their  mouths  full. 

"I  hear  tell  of  a  borer,  like  an  ear-worm, 
spoiling  the  corn.  .  .  .    But  there's  none  in 
our  corn,  so  far  as  I  can  see." 
36 


THE  BAELYS 


"Never  been  so  much  rain  since  I  was 
born." 

"A  bad  year." 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Early,  "that's  no  won 
der,  either,  with  prices  what  they  are,  and 
you  two  eating  your  heads  off,  for  all  the 
work  you  do." 

"Now,  then,"  said  her  husband  hastily, 
"that's  all  right,  too,  mother." 

Anna  stood  at  the  sink,  and  washed  the 
dishes.  Her  hands  floated  through  the 
warm,  soapy  water  like  lazy  fish,  curled 
around  plates,  swam  out  of  pots;  while  her 
thoughts,  drowsy,  sunny  in  her  head,  passed, 
like  her  hands,  from  what  was  hardly  seen 
to  what  was  hardly  felt. 

"Look  after  the  milk,  Anna,"  said  her 

mother,  "while  I  go  for  some  kindlings." 

She  went  out,  thin,  stooped,  her  long,  lean 

fingers  fumbling  with  her  apron;  and  she 

37 


AUTUMN 


came  back  more  bent  than  before.  She  put 
the  wood  down  with  a  sigh.  "A  body's 
never  done,"  she  said. 

Anna  looked  after  the  milk,  all  in  a  gentle 
phlegm.  Her  mother  cooked,  cleaned, 
scrubbed,  carried  water,  fetched  wood,  set 
the  house  to  rights;  in  order  to  keep  Anna 
fresh  and  plump  until  she  was  married. 
Anna,  plump  and  wealthy,  was  a  good  match 
for  any  one:  old  Mr.  Frye  used  to  smile 
when  he  saw  her.  "Smooth  and  sweet,"  he 
used  to  say:  "molasses  .  .  .  hm  .  .  ." 

Now  she  stood  dreaming  by  the  stove, 
until  her  mother,  climbing  from  the  cellar, 
woke  her  with  a  clatter  of  coal.  "Why,  you 
big,  awkward  girl,"  cried  Mrs.  Barly,  "what 
ever  are  you  dreaming  about?" 

Anna  thought  to  herself:  "I  was  dream 
ing  of  a  thousand  things.  But  when  I  went 
38 


THE  BARLYS 


to    look   at   them  .  .  .  there    was    nothing 
left." 

"Nothing,"  she  said  aloud. 

"Then,"  said  her  mother  doubtfully,  "you 
might  help  me  shell  peas." 

The  two  women  sat  down  together,  a 
wooden  bowl  between  them.  The  pods  split 
under  their  fingers,  click,  cluck;  the  peas 
fell  into  the  bowl  like  shot  at  first,  dull  as 
the  bowl  grew  full.  Click,  cluck,  click, 
cluck  .  .  .  Anna  began  to  dream  again. 
"Oh,  do  wake  up,"  said  her  mother;  "one 
would  think  .  .  ." 

Anna's  hands  went  startled  into  the  peas. 
"I  must  be  in  love,"  she  said  with  half  a 
smile. 

Mrs.  Early  sighed.    "Ak,"  she  said. 

Anna  began  to  laugh.    After  a  while  she 
asked,  "Do  you  think  I'm  in  love?" 
39 


AUTUMN 


"Like  as  not,"  said  her  mother. 

"Well,  then,"  Anna  cried,  "I'm  not  in 
love  at  all — not  now." 

Mrs.  Early  let  her  fingers  rest  idly  along 
the  rim  of  the  bowl.  "When  I  was  a 
girl  .  .  ."  she  began.  Then  it  was  Anna's 
turn  to  sigh. 

"It  seems  like  yesterday,"  remarked  Mrs. 
Early,  who  wanted  to  say,  "I  am  still  a 
young  woman." 

Anna  split  pods  gravely,  her  eyes  bent  on 
her  task.  The  tone  of  her  mother's  voice, 
tart  and  dry,  filled  her  mind  with  the  sulky 
thoughts  of  youth.  "There's  fewer  alive  to 
day,"  she  said,  "than  when  you  were  a  girl." 

Mrs.  Early  knew  very  well  what  her 
daughter  meant.  "Be  glad  there's  any  left," 
she  replied,  as  she  turned  again  to  her  shell 
ing. 

40 


THE  BAELYS 


Anna's  round,  brown  finger  moved  in 
circles  through  the  peas.  "I'm  too  young  to 
marry,"  she  said,  at  last. 

"No  younger  than  what  I  was." 

But  it  seemed  to  Anna  as  though  life  had 
changed  since  those  days.  For  every  one 
was  reaching  for  more.  And  Anna,  too, 
wanted  more  .  .  .  more  than  her  mother 
had  had.  "If  I  wait,"  she  said  in  a  low 
voice,  "to  ...  see  a  bit  of  life  .  .  .  what's 
the  harm?" 

The  pod  in  Mrs.  Barly's  hand  cracked 
with  a  pop,  and  trembled  in  the  air,  split 
open  like  the  covers  of  a  book.  "I  declare," 
she  exclaimed,  "I  don't  know  what  to  think 
.  .  .  well  .  .  .  wait  ...  I  suppose  you 
want  to  be  like  Mrs.  Wicket?" 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  Anna. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Barly,  in  a  shaking 
41 


AUTUMN 


voice,  "yes  .  .  .  wait  .  .  .  you'll  see  a  bit 
of  something  ...  a  taste  of  the  broom, 
perhaps.  .  .  ." 

While  the  two  women  looked  after  the 
house,  the  hired  men  worked  in  the  fields, 
under  the  hot  sun,  their  wet,  cotton  shirts 
open  at  the  neck,  their  faces  shaded  with 
wide  straw  hats.  Farmer  Barly  leaned 
against  one  side  of  a  tumbled-down  wooden 
fence,  and  old  Mr.  Crabbe  against  the 
other. 

"This  year,"  said  Farmer  Barly,  "I'm 
going  to  put  up  a  silo  in  my  barn.  And 
instead  of  straw  to  cover  it,  I'm  going  to 
plant  oats  on  top." 

"Go  along,"  said  Mr.  Crabbe. 

"Well,  it's  a  fact,"  said  Mr.  Barly.  "I'm 
building  now,  back  of  the  cows." 

"Digging,  you  might  say,"  corrected  Mr. 
Crabbe. 

42 


THE  BAELYS 


"Building,  by  God,"  said  Mr.  Early. 

Mr.  Crabbe  tilted  back  his  head  and  cast 
a  look  of  wonder  at  the  sky.  "A  hole  is  a 
hole,"  he  said  finally. 

"So  it  is,"  agreed  Mr.  Early,  "so  it  is.  It 
takes  a  Republican  to  find  that  out."  And, 
greatly  amused  at  his  own  wit,  Mr.  Early, 
who  was  a  Democrat,  slapped  his  knee  and 
burst  out  laughing. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Crabbe  solemnly,  with 
pious  joy,  "I'm  a  Republican  ...  a  good 
Republican,  Mr.  Early,  like  my  father 
before  me."  He  smote  his  fist  into  his  open 
palm.  "I'll  vote  the  Democrats  blue  in  the 
face.  If  a  man  can't  vote  for  his  own  advan 
tage,  what's  the  ballot  for?  I  say  let's  mind 
our  own  business.  And  let  me  get  my  hands 
on  what  I  want." 

"Get  what  you  can,"  said  Mr.  Early. 

"And  the  devil  take  the  hindmost." 
43 


AUTUMN 


"It's  all  the  same  to  me,"  quoth  Mr.  Early, 
"folks  being  mostly  alike  as  two  peas." 

Mr.  Crabbe  spat  into  the  stubble.  "The 
way  I  look  at  it,"  he  said,  "it's  like  this:  first, 
there's  me ;  and  then  there's  you.  That's  the 
way  I  look  at  it,  Mr.  B." 

And  he  went  home  to  repeat  to  his  wife 
what  he  had  said  to  Farmer  Early.  "I  gave 
it  to  him,"  he  declared. 

In  another  field,  Abner  and  John  Henry, 
who  had  been  to  war,  also  discussed  politics. 
They  agreed  that  the  pay  they  received  for 
their  work  was  inadequate.  It  seemed  to 
them  to  be  the  fault  of  the  government, 
which  was  run  for  the  benefit  of  others  be 
sides  themselves. 

That  afternoon,  Mr.  Jeminy,  with  Eoe- 
thius  under  his  arm,  came  into  Frye's  Gen 
eral  Store,  to  buy  a  box  of  matches  for  Mrs. 
Grumble.  As  he  paid  for  them,  he  said  to 
44 


THE  BAELYS 


Thomas  Frye,  who  had  been  his  pupil  in 
school:  "These  little  sticks  of  wood  need 
only  a  good  scratch  to  confuse  me,  for  a 
moment,  with  the  God  of  Genesis.  But  they 
also  encourage  Mrs.  Grumble  to  burn, 
before  I  come  down  in  the  morning,  the 
bits  of  paper  on  which  I  like  to  scribble  my 
notes." 

At  that  moment,  old  Mrs.  Ploughman 
entered  the  store  to  buy  a  paper  of  pins. 
"Well,"  she  cried,  "don't  keep  me  waiting 
all  day."  But  when  Mr.  Jeminy  was  gone, 
she  said  to  Thomas  Frye,  "I  guess  I  don't 
want  any  pins.  What  was  it  I  wanted?" 

Presently  she  went  home  again,  without 
having  bought  anything.  "It's  all  the  fault 
of  that  old  man,"  she  said  to  herself;  "he 
mixes  a  body  up  so." 

On  his  way  home  Mr.  Jeminy  passed,  at 
the  edge  of  the  village,  the  little  cottage 
45 


AUTUMN 


where  the  widow  Wicket  lived  with  her 
daughter.  Seeing  Mrs.  Wicket  in  the 
garden,  he  stopped  to  wave  his  hand.  Under 
her  bonnet,  the  young  woman  looked  up  at 
him,  her  plain,  thin  face  flushed  with  her 
efforts  in  the  garden  patch.  "I've  never 
seen  such  weeds,"  she  cried.  "You'd 
think  ...  I  don't  know  what  you'd  think. 
They  grow  and  grow  ..." 

Mr.  Jeminy  went  up  the  hill  toward  his 
house,  carrying  the  box  of  matches.  As  he 
walked,  the  little  white  butterflies,  which 
danced  above  the  road,  kept  him  company; 
and  all  about  him,  in  the  meadows,  among 
the  daisies,  the  beetles,  wasps,  bees,  and 
crickets,  with  fifes,  flutes,  drums,  and  tri 
angles,  were  singing  joyously  together  the 
Canticle  of  the  Sun: 

"Praised  be  the  Lord  God  with  all  his 
creatures,  but  especially  our  brother,  the 
46 


THE  BARLYS 


sun  .  .  .  fair  he  is,  and  shines,  with  a  very 
great  splendor  .  .  . 

"Praised  be  the  Lord  for  our  sister,  the 
moon,  and  for  the  stars,  which  he  has  set 
clear  and  lovely  in  heaven. 

".  .  .  (and)  for  our  brother,  the  wind, 
and  for  air  and  cloud,  calm  and  all 
weather  .  .  . 

".  .  .  (and)  for  our  mother,  the  earth, 
which  does  sustain  us  and  keep  us  ... 

"Praised  be  the  Lord  for  all  those  who 
pardon  one  another  .  .  .  and  who  endure 
weakness  and  tribulation;  blessed  are  they 
who  peaceably  shall  endure  .  .  ." 

Slowly,  to  the  tonkle  of  herds  in  pasture, 
the  crowing  of  cocks,  and  the  thin,  clear 
clang  of  the  smithy,  the  full  sun  sank  in  the 
west.  For  a  time  all  was  quiet,  as  night,  the 
shadow  of  the  earth,  crept  between  man  and 
God. 

47 


AUTUMN 


After  supper  Thomas  Frye,  in  his  father's 
wagon,  went  to  call  on  Anna  Early. 

From  her  porch  where  she  sat  hidden  by 
vines  which  gave  forth  an  odor  sweeter  than 
honey,  the  night  was  visible,  pale  and  full  of 
shadows.  To  the  boy  beside  her,  timid  and 
ardent,  the  silence  of  her  parents  seemed, 
like  the  night,  to  be  full  of  opinions. 

"Well  .  .  .  shall  we  go  for  a  ride?" 

Anna  called  in  to  her  mother,  "I'm  going 
for  a  ride  with  Tom." 

"Don't  be  late,"  said  her  mother. 

The  two  went  down  the  path,  and  climbed 
into  the  buggy;  soon  the  yellow  lantern, 
swung  between  its  wheels,  rolled  like  a  star 
down  the  road  to  Milford. 

"Why  so  quiet,  Tom?" 

"Am  I,  Ann?" 

"Angry?" 

48 


THE  BARLYS 


"Just  thinking  ...  so  to  say." 

"Oh."  And  she  began  to  hum  under  her 
breath. 

"I  was  just  thinking,"  he  said  again. 
Then,  solemnly,  he  added,  "about  things." 

"About  you  and  me,"  he  wound  up  finally. 
When  she  offered  him  a  penny  for  his 
thoughts,  he  said,  "Well  .  .  .  nothing." 

"Dear  me." 

At  his  hard  cluck  the  wagon  swept  for 
ward.  "You  know  what  I  was  thinking," 
he  said. 

"Do  I?"  asked  Anna  innocently 

"Don't  you?" 

"Perhaps." 

So  they  went  on  through  the  dark,  under 

the  trees,  to  Milford.     When  their  little 

world,  smelling  of  harness,  came  to  a  halt 

in  front  of  the  drug  store,  they  descended 

49 


AUTUMN 


to  quench  their  thirst  with  syrup,  gas,  milk, 
and  lard.  Then,  with  dreamy  faces,  they 
made  their  way  to  the  movies. 

Now  their  hands  are  clasped,  but  they  do 
not  notice  each  other.  For  they  do  not  know 
where  they  are;  they  imagine  they  are  act 
ing  upon  the  screen.  It  is  a  mistake  which 
charms  and  consoles  them  both.  "How  beau 
tiful  I  am,"  thinks  Anna  drowsily,  watching 
Miss  Gish.  "And  how  elegant  to  be  in 
love." 

Later  Anna  will  say  to  herself:  "Other 
people's  lives  are  like  that." 

On  the  way  home  she  sat  smiling  and 
dreaming.  The  horse  ran  briskly  through 
the  night  mist;  and  the  wheels,  rumbling 
over  the  ground,  turned  up  the  thoughts  of 
simple  Thomas  Frye,  only  to  plow  them 
under  again. 

"Ann,"  he  said  when  they  were  more 
50 


THE  EAELYS 


than  half-way  home,  "don't  you  care  for 
me  ...  any  more?"  As  he  spoke,  he  cut 
at  the  black  trees  with  his  long  whip. 

"Yes,  I  do,  Tom." 

"As  much  as  you  did?" 

"Just  as  much." 

"More,  Ann?" 

"Maybe." 

"Then  .  .  .  will  you?  Say,  will  you, 
Ann?" 

"I  don't  know,  Tom.  Don't  ask  me. 
Please." 

"But  IVe  got  to  ask  you,"  he  cried. 

"Oh,  what's  the  good."  And  she  looked 
away,  to  where  the  faint  light  of  the  lantern 
fled  along  beside  them,  over  the  trees. 

"Is  it,"  he  said  slowly,  "is  it  no?" 

"Well,  then— no." 

Thomas  was  silent.    At  last  he  asked,  "Is 
it  a  living  man,  Ann?" 
51 


AUTUMN 


"No,"  said  Anna. 

"Is  it  a  dead  man,  now?" 

Anna  moved  uneasily.    "No,  it  isn't,"  she 
said.    "  'Tisn't  anybody." 

But  Thomas   persisted.     "Would   it  be 
Noel,  if  he  warn't  dead  in  France?" 

"Maybe." 

"You're  not  going  to  keep  on  thinking  of 
him,  are  you?" 

"I  don't  plan  to." 

"Then — "  and  Thomas  came  back  to  the 
old  question  once  more,  "why  not?" 

"Why  not  what?" 

"Take  me,  then?" 

"Well,"    she    said    vaguely,    "I'm    too 
young." 

"I'd  wait." 

:  'T wouldn't  help  any.    I  want  so  much, 
Tom  .  .  .  you  couldn't  give  me  all  I  want." 

He  said,  "What  is  it  I  couldn't  give  you?" 
52 


THE  BARLYS 


"I  don't  know,  Tom  ...  I  want  what 
other  people  have  .  .  .  experiences  ..." 

At  his  bitter  laugh,  she  was  filled  with  pity 
for  herself.  "Is  it  so  funny?"  she  asked.  "I 
don't  care." 

"Whatever's  got  into  you,  Ann?" 

"I  don't  know  there's  anything  got  into 
me  beyond  I  don't  want  to  grow  old — and 
dry.  .  .  ." 

"I  don't  see  as  you  can  help  it  any." 

But  Anna  was  tipsy  with  youth :  she  swore 
she'd  be  dead  before  she  was  old. 

"Hush,  Ann." 

"Why  should  I  hush?"  she  asked.  "It's 
the  truth." 

"It's  a  lie,  that's  what  it  is,"  said  Thomas. 

"Do  you  hate  me,  Tom?"  she  said.  And 
she  sat  looking  steadily  before  her. 

"I  don't  know  what's  got  into  you.  You 
act  so  queer." 

53 


AUTUMN 


"I  want  to  be  happy,"  she  whispered. 

"Then  .  .  .  you  can  do  as  you  like  for 
all  of  me." 

But  as  they  rode  along  in  silence,  wrapped 
in  mist,  she  drew  closer  to  him,  all  her  reck 
less  spirit  gone.  "There  .  .  .  you've  made 
me  cry,"  she  said,  and  put  her  hand,  cold  and 
moist,  into  his. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  kiss  me,  Tom?" 

He  slapped  the  reins  bitterly  across  his 
horse's  back.  "What's  the  good  of  that?"  he 
asked,  in  turn. 

"Perhaps,"  she  said  faintly,  "there  isn't 
any.  Oh,  I  don't  know  .  .  .  what's  the 
difference?" 

And  so  they  rode  on  in  silence,  with  pale 
cheeks  and  strange  thoughts. 


IV 

MR.  JEMINY  BUILDS 

A  HOUSE  OUT  OF  BOXES 

MR.  JEMINY  liked  to  call  on  Mrs. 
Wicket,  whose  little  cottage,  at 
the  edge  of  the  village,  on  the  way 
to  Milford,  had  belonged  to  Eben  Wicket 
for  nearly  fifty  years.    Now  it  belonged  to 
the  widow  of  Eben's  son,  John.  Mr.  Jeminy 
remembered  John  Wicket  as  a  boy  in  school. 
He  was  a  rogue ;  his  head  was  already  so  full 
of  mischief,  that  it  was  impossible  to  teach 
him  anything.     So  he  was  not  much  wiser 
when  he  left  school,  than  when  he  entered 
it.    However,  Mr.  Jeminy  was  satisfied  with 
his  instruction.     "With  more  knowledge," 
the  old  schoolmaster  thought  to  himself,  "he 
55 


AUTUMN 


might  do  a  great  deal  of  harm  in  the  world. 
So  perhaps  it  is  just  as  well  for  him  to  be 
ignorant."  And  he  consoled  himself  with 
this  reflection. 

A  year  later  John  Wicket  ran  away  from 
home,  taking  with  him  the  money  which  his 
father  kept  in  a  stone  jug  in  the  kitchen. 
Old  Mr.  Wicket  refused  to  send  after  him. 
"I  didn't  need  the  money,"  he  said,  "and  I 
don't  need  him.  Well,  they're  both  gone." 

But  after  a  while,  since  his  son  was  no 
longer  there  to  plague  him,  he  began  to 
feel  proud  of  him.  "An  out  and  out  scamp," 
he  said,  with  relish.  "Never  seen  the  like." 

John  Wicket  was  gone  for  three  years, 
no  one  knew  where.  At  last  Eben  received 
news  of  him  again.  His  son,  who  had  been 
living  all  this  time  in  a  nearby  village,  fell 
from  a  ladder  and  broke  his  neck.  "Just," 
said  Eben  Wicket,  "as  I  expected." 
56 


ME.  JEMINY  BUILDS  A  HOUSE 

No  one,  however,  expected  to  see  his 
widow  come  to  live  with  her  father-in-law. 
The  old  man  himself  went  to  fetch  her  and 
her  year-old  child.  She  proved  to  be  a 
small,  plain  body,  with  an  air  of  fright  about 
her,  as  though  life  had  surprised  her.  Out 
of  respect  for  Eben,  as  they  put  it,  the  gos 
sips  went  to  call.  They  found  her  shy,  and 
inclined  to  be  silent;  they  drank  their  tea, 
and  examined  her  with  curiosity,  while  she, 
for  her  part,  seemed  to  want  to  hide  away. 

"As  who  wouldn't,  in  her  place,"  said 
Mrs.  Ploughman. 

It  was  agreed  that,  having  married  an 
out-and-out  rascal,  she  ought  to  be  willing 
to  spend  the  remainder  of  her  life  quietly. 
So  she  was  left  to  herself,  which  seemed,  on 
the  face  of  it,  to  be  about  what  she  wanted. 
She  tended  Eben's  house,  drove  the  one  cow 
to  pasture,  and  sang  to  little  Juliet  from 
57 


AUTUMN 


morning  till  night  the  songs  she  remembered 
from  her  own  childhood. 

During  that  time  no  one  had  any  fault 
to  find  with  her,  excepting  old  Mrs.  Crabbe, 
who  thought  she  should  have  called  her  child 
Mary  instead  of  Juliet.  "It's  not  a  proper 
name,"  she  said  to  Mrs.  Tomkins.  "It  isn't 
in  the  Bible,  Mrs.  Tomkins.  You'd  do  as 
well  to  call  the  child  Salomy.  Salomy's  in 
the  Bible." 

When  Eben  Wicket  died,  early  in  1917,  he 
left  his  house  and  about  an  acre  of  land  to 
his  daughter-in-law.  She  was  poor ;  still,  she 
had  enough  to  get  along  on.  She  was  young, 
but  every  one  thought  of  her  as  a  woman 
whose  life  was  over.  So  when  Noel 
Ploughman  took  to  keeping  company  with 
her,  the  gossips  were  all  aflitter.  It  was 
June;  the  regulars  were  on  their  way  to 
France;  and  what  with  the  war,  and  Mrs. 
58 


MR.  JEMINY  BUILDS  A  HOUSE 

Wicket,  the  village  had  plenty  to  talk  about. 
Old  Mrs.  Ploughman  said  nothing,  but  re 
garded  her  friends  with  a  gloomy  and 
thoughtful  air.  On  the  other  hand,  Miss 
Beal,  the  dressmaker,  saw  no  reason  to  keep 
her  opinions  to  herself.  "It's  a  scandal/' 
she  said  to  her  friend  Mrs.  Grumble ;  "what 
with  Eben  Wicket  scarcely  cold  in  his 
grave,  and  John  a  thief,  with  his  neck  broke 
and  heaven  only  knows  what  else  besides." 
Nevertheless,  that  summer  Noel  Plough 
man's  sober,  honest  face  was  often  to  be  seen 
in  Mrs.  Wicket's  garden  patch,  among  the 
beans  and  the  lettuces.  Who  can  say  what 
they  found  in  one  another  to  admire?  In 
his  company  she  was  both  happy  and  regret 
ful,  while  he,  seeing  her  by  turns  quiet  and 
gay,  could  not  determine  which  he  found 
more  charming.  They  talked  over  the 
weather  together,  and  discussed  the  crops, 
59 


AUTUMN 


Love  comes  slowly  in  the  north;  there  is 
time  for  every  one  to  take  a  hand  in  it. 
August  passed  without  either  having  men 
tioned  what  was  in  their  hearts.  Then  Mrs. 
Ploughman  made  up  her  mind  to  put  an  end 
to  it.  One  day,  when  Noel  was  in  Milford, 
she  came  to  call  on  Mrs.  Wicket.  One  can 
imagine  what  she  said  to  the  young  woman, 
who  was  already  a  mother  and  a  widow. 
The  next  day  Mrs.  Wicket  appeared  in  her 
garden,  pale  and  composed.  Those  who  had 
occasion  to  pass  the  little  cottage  at  the  edge 
of  the  village,  remarked  that  she  no  longer 
hummed  under  her  breath  the  gay  tunes  of 
her  childhood. 

"Her  sin  has  found  her  out,"  said  Miss 
Beal.  "She's  fallen  by  the  way." 

"You'd  think,"  said  Mrs.  Crabbe,  "she'd 
behave  herself  a  speck,  after  the  life  she's 
had." 

60 


ME.  JEMINY  BUILDS  A  HOUSE 

Mrs.  Grumble  also  was  of  the  opinion  that 
Mrs.  Wicket  had  done  wrong  in  allowing 
herself  to  care  for  Noel  Ploughman.  For  it 
seemed  to  the  gossips  that  Mrs.  Wicket's 
life  was,  by  rights,  no  longer  her  own  to  do 
with.  She  was  the  earthly  remains  of  a 
sinner;  she  had  no  right  to  enjoy  herself. 

Two  days  later  Noel  Ploughman  en 
listed,  "for  the  duration  of  the  war."  His 
grandmother  accepted  the  congratulations 
of  Mrs.  Crabbe  and  the  sympathy  of  Mrs. 
Early  with  equal  satisfaction.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  she  had  done  her  duty  as  she  saw  it. 
But  when  Noel  was  killed  in  France  a  year 
later,  she  felt  that  Mrs.  Wicket  had  killed 
him.  "Now,"  she  croaked  to  Mrs.  Crabbe, 
"I  hope  she's  satisfied." 

She  seemed  to  be;  she  took  the  news  of 
Noel's  death  with  curious  calm.  It  was  al- 
inost  as  if  she  had  been  expecting  it,  looking 

61 


AUTUMN 


for  it  ...  one  might  have  thought  she  had 
been  waiting  for  it.  ...  After  a  while,  she 
began  to  sing  again.  Her  voice,  as  she 
crooned  to  Juliet,  was  musical,  but  quavery. 

It  provoked  the  good  women  of  the  vil 
lage,  who  began  to  think  that  perhaps,  after 
all,  she  had  "had  her  way."  "There's  this 
much  about  it,"  said  Miss  Beal;  "no  one  else 
will  have  him  now." 

Mrs.  Grumble  agreed  with  her.  She  dis 
liked  Mrs.  Wicket  because  Mr.  Jeminy 
liked  her.  He  pitied  the  young  woman  who 
had  had  the  misfortune  to  marry  a  thief, 
and  he  forgave  her  for  wanting  to  be  happy, 
because  it  did  not  seem  to  him  that  to  have 
been  the  wife  of  a  good-for-nothing  was 
much  to  settle  down  on.  In  his  opinion, 
life  owed  her  more  than  she  had  got. 

"She  is  simple  and  kind,"  he  said  to  Mrs. 
62 


MR.  JEMINY  BUILDS  A  HOUSE 

Grumble.  "She  has  had  very  little  to  give 
thanks  for." 

"She'll  have  more,  then,  if  she  can,"  re 
plied  Mrs.  Grumble  with  a  toss  of  her  head 
as  though  to  say,  "it's  you  who  are  simple." 

And  she  looked  the  other  way,  when  they 
met  on  the  road.  Mr.  Jeminy,  on  the  other 
hand,  often  went  to  call  at  the  little  house 
at  the  edge  of  the  village.  The  young 
widow,  who  had  no  other  callers,  felt  that 
one  friend  was  enough  when  he  talked  as 
much  as  Mr.  Jeminy.  While  he  laid  open 
before  her  the  great  books  of  the  past,  illum 
inating  their  pages  with  his  knowledge  and 
reflections,  she  listened  with  an  air  of  tran 
quil  pleasure.  She  counted  the  stitches  on 
her  sewing,  and  answered  "sakes  alive,"  in 
the  pauses. 

One  day  in  April  she  put  on  her  best 
63 


AUTUMN 


dress,  and  took  the  stage  to  Milf ord.  When 
she  came  home  again,  in  the  evening,  she 
brought  with  her  a  decorated  shell  for  her 
friend.  But  it  happened  that  Thomas  Frye 
also  came  home  from  Milford,  by  the  same 
stage.  That  was  what  Mrs.  Grumble  was 
waiting  for.  "Now  she's  at  it  again,"  said 
Mrs.  Grumble.  "She's  bound  to  have  some 
one,"  she  declared;  "one  or  another,  it's  all 
the  same."  And  she  gazed  meaningly  at 
Mr.  Jeminy,  who  started  at  once  for  his 
den,  as  though  he  were  looking  for  some 
thing. 

Then  she  was  delighted  with  herself,  and 
retired  to  the  kitchen. 

It  was  useless  for  Mr.  Jeminy  to  retreat 
to  his  den.  For  sooner  or  later,  Mrs. 
Grumble  always  found  something  to  do 
there.  She  would  come  in  with  her  broom 
and  her  mop,  and  look  around.  Then  Mr. 
64 


ME.  JEMINY  BUILDS  A  HOUSE 

Jeminy  would  walk  hastily  out  of  the  house 
and  descend  to  the  village.  There,  it  would 
occur  to  him  to  call  on  Mrs.  Wicket,  because 
he  happened  to  have  with  him  a  book  he 
thought  she  would  like  to  look  at,  or  a  flower 
for  Juliet.  Mrs.  Wicket  received  each  book 
with  gratitude,  and  looked  to  see  if  there 
were  any  pictures  in  it,  before  giving  it  back 
again.  Juliet,  on  the  other  hand,  wished  to 
know  the  names  of  all  the  flowers.  When 
Mr.  Jeminy  repeated  their  names  in  Latin, 
from  the  text-book  on  botany,  she  clapped 
her  hands,  and  jumped  up  and  down,  be 
cause  it  was  so  comical 

Now,  in  August,  Mr.  Jeminy  was  build 
ing  her  a  doll's  house  in  Mrs.  Wicket's 
tumbledown  barn.  It  was  the  sort  of  work 
he  liked  to  engage  in;  no  one  expected  him 
to  be  accurate,  it  was  only  necessary  to  use 
his  imagination.  But  Juliet,  swinging  her 
65 


AUTUMN 


legs  on  top  of  the  feed  bin,  regarded  him 
with  round  and  serious  eyes.  For  in  Juliet's 
opinion,  Mr.  Jeminy  was  involved  in  a  dif 
ficult  task;  and  she  was  afraid  he  might 
not  be  able  to  go  through  with  it. 

"How  many  rooms,"  she  said,  "is  my 
doll's  house  going  to  have?" 

"I  had  counted,"  said  Mr.  Jeminy,  "on 
two."  And  he  went  over  the  plans,  using  his 
hammer  as  a  pointer.  "Here  is  the  bed 
room,"  he  said,  "and  there  is  the  kitchen. 
There's  where  the  stove  is  going  to  be." 

Juliet  followed  him  without  interest.  It 
was  apparent  that  she  was  disappointed. 
"Where's  the  parlor?"  she  demanded. 

"Must  there  be  a  parler?"  asked  Mr. 
Jeminy,  in  surprise. 

"What  do  you  think?"  said  Juliet.  "I 
have  to  have  a  place  for  Anna  to  keep  com 
pany  in." 

66 


ME.  JEMINY  BUILDS  A  HOUSE 

Anna  was  the  youngest  of  her  three  dolls ; 
that  is  to  say,  Anna  was  smaller  than  either 
Sara  or  Margaret.  It  seemed  to  Juliet  that 
to  be  without  a  parlor  was  to  lack  elegance. 

Mr.  Jeminy  rubbed  his  chin.  "Isn't  Anna 
very  young,"  he  asked,  "to  keep  company  in 
the  parlor?" 

"No,  she  isn't,"  said  Juliet. 

Then,  as  Mr.  Jeminy  made  no  reply,  she 
added,  "She's  six,  going  on  seven." 

Mr.  Jeminy  sighed.  "Is  she  indeed?" 
he  remarked  absently.  "It  is  a  charming 
age.  I  wish  I  were  able  to  see  the  world 
again  through  the  eyes  of  six,  going  on 
seven.  What  a  noble  world  it  would  seem, 
full  of  pleasant  people." 

"So,"  declared  Juliet,  "we  have  to  have  a 
parlor." 

However,  she  could  not  sit  still  very 
long. 

67 


AUTUMN 


Presently  she  hopped  down  from  the  feed 
bin.  "Look,"  she  said,  "this  is  the  way  to 
fly."  She  began  to  dance  about,  waving 
her  arms.  "This,"  she  declared,  "is  the  way 
the  bees  go."  And  she  ran  up  and  down, 
crying  "buzz,  buzz." 

She  decided  to  play  house,  by  herself.  Ar 
ranging  her  three  dolls,  made  of  rags  and 
sawdust,  on  top  of  the  bin,  she  stood  before 
them,  with  her  fingers  in  her  mouth.  Then 
all  at  once  she  began  to  play. 

"My  goodness,"  she  exclaimed,  "I'm  sur 
prised  at  you.  Look  at  your  clothes,  every 
which  way.  Margaret,  do  sit  up.  And 
Sara — you'll  be  the  death  of  me,  with  all  my 
work  to  do  yet,  and  everything." 

"How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Henry  Stove,"  she 
added,    addressing    a    three-legged    stool, 
"come  right  in  and  sit  down. 
68 


ME.  JEMINY  BUILDS  A  HOUSE 

"Terrible  hot  weather  we're  having. 
Worst  I  ever  see." 

She  moved  busily  about,  humming  a  song 
to  herself.  "I  declare,  it's  time  you  went  to 
school,  children,"  she  said  finally,  stopping 
to  look  at  her  family. 

Without  trouble,  she  became  the  school 
teacher.  Propping  her  three  dolls  more 
firmly  against  the  wall,  she  took  her  stand 
directly  in  front  of  them.  "Do  you  know 
your  lessons,  children?"  she  asked.  Then 
she  squeaked  back  to  herself,  "Yes,  ma'am." 

"Well,  then,  Margaret,  what's  the  best 
cow  for  butter?" 

Mr.  Jeminy  began  to  laugh.  But  almost 
at  once  he  became  serious  and  confused.  For 
it  occurred  to  him  that  he  did  not  know 
what  cow  was  best  for  butter.  "This  child," 
he  thought,  "who  cannot  tell  me  why  it  is 
69 


'AUTUMN 


necessary  to  take  two  apples  from  four 
apples,  is  nevertheless  able  to  distinguish  be 
tween  one  cow  and  another.  She  is  wiser 
than  I  am." 

He  stood  gazing  thoughtfully  at  Juliet, 
and  smiling.  The  sun  of  late  afternoon, 
already  about  to  sink  in  the  west,  was  shin 
ing  through  the  window,  covered  with  dust 
and  cobwebs.  And  Mr.  Jeminy,  watching 
the  dust  dancing  in  the  sun,  thought  to  him 
self:  "I  should  like  to  stay  here;  it  is  peace 
ful  and  friendly.  I  should  like  to  help  Mrs. 
Wicket  plant  her  little  garden  in  the  spring, 
and  plow  it  under  in  the  autumn.  Now 
it  is  growing  late  and  I  must  go  home 
again." 

Juliet  had  tired  of  her  play.  "Tell  me  a 
story,"  she  said.  "Tell  me  about  the  war, 
Mr.  Jeminy.  Tell  me  about  Noel  Plough 


man." 


70 


MR.  JEMINY  BUILDS  A  HOUSE 

But  Mr.  Jeminy  shook  his  head.  "No," 
he  said,  "it  is  time  to  drive  your  mother's 
cow  home  from  the  fields.  Some  other  day 
I  will  tell  you  about  the  great  wars  of  old, 
fought  for  no  other  reason  than  glory  and 
empire,  which  disappointed  no  one,  except 
the  vanquished.  But  there  is  no  time  now. 
Come;  we  will  go  for  the  cow  together." 

Hand  in  hand  they  went  down  the  road 
toward  Mr.  Crabbe's  field,  where  Mrs. 
Wicket  rented  pasturage  for  her  cow.  The 
sun  was  sinking  above  the  trees;  and  they 
heard,  about  them,  in  the  fields,  the  silence 
of  evening,  the  song  of  the  crickets  and 
cicadas. 

They  found  the  cows  gathered  at  the 
pasture  bars,  with  sweet,  misty  breath,  their 
bells  clashing  faintly  as  they  moved.  "Go 
'long,"  cried  Juliet,  switching  her  little  rod, 
to  single  out  her  own.  And  to  the  patter  of 
71 


AUTUMN 


hoofs  and  the  tonkle  of  bells,  they  started 
home  again. 

Mrs.  Wicket,  in  the  kitchen,  watched  them 
from  her  window,  in  the  clear,  fading  light. 
"How  good  he  is,"  she  thought.  And  she 
turned,  with  a  smile  and  a  sigh,  to  set  the 
table  for  Juliet's  supper. 

Juliet  was  singing  along  the  roadside. 
"A  tisket,"  she  sang,  "a  tasket,  a  green  and 
yellow  basket  .  .  ."  And  she  chanted,  to 
a  tune  of  her  own,  an  old  verse  she  had  once 
heard  Mr.  Jeminy  singing : 

When  I  was  a  young  man, 
I  said,  bright  and  bold, 
I  would  be  a  great  one, 
When  I  was  old. 

When  I  was  a  young  man, 
But  that  was  long  ago, 
I  sang  the  merry  old  songs 
All  men  know. 

72 


MR.  JEMINY  BUILDS  A  HOUSE 

When  I  was  a  young  man, 
When  I  was  young  and  smart, 
I  think  I  broke  a  mirror, 
Or  a  girl's  heart. 

Mr.  Jeminy  walked  in  the  middle  of  the 
road,  under  the  dying  sky,  already  lighted 
by  the  young  moon,  in  the  west.  As  he 
walked,  the  fresh  air  of  evening,  blowing  on 
his  face,  with  its  sweet  odors,  the  twilight 
notes  of  birds  among  the  leaves,  the  faint 
acclaim  of  bells,  and  Juliet's  childish  singing, 
filled  his  heart  with  unaccustomed  peace, 
moved  him  with  gentle  and  deliberate  joy. 
He  remembered  the  voices  he  had  heard  in 
the  little  schoolhouse  in  the  spring. 

"Jeminy,  what  are  you  doing?" 

Then  Mr.  Jeminy  raised  his  head  to  the 
sky,  in  which  the  first  stars  of  night  were 
to  be  seen. 

"I  am  very  busy  now,"  he  said,  proudly. 
73 


RAIN 

FROM  her  dormer  window,  Anna 
Barly  peered  out  at  the  wet,  gray 
morning.  The  ground  was  sopping, 
the  trees  black  with  the  night's  drenching. 
In  the  orchard  a  sparrow  sang  an  uncertain 
song;  and  she  heard  the  comfortable  drip, 
drip,  drip  from  the  eaves.  It  was  damp  and 
fresh  at  the  window;  the  breeze,  cold  and 
fragrant  after  rain,  made  her  shiver.  She 
drew  her  wrapper  closer  about  her  throat, 
and  sat  staring  out  across  the  sodden  lawn, 
with  idle  thoughts  for  company. 

She  thought  that  she  was  young,  and  that 
the  world  was  old:  that  rain  belonged  to 
74 


RAIN 


youth.  Old  age  should  sit  in  the  sun,*  but 
youth  was  best  of  all  in  bad  weather. 
"There's  no  telling  where  you  are  in  the 
rain.  And  there's  no  one  spying,  for  every 
one's  indoors,  keeping  dry."  Yes,  youth  is 
quite  a  person  in  the  rain. 

With  slim,  lazy  fingers,  she  began  to  braid 
her  long,  fair  hair.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
folks  were  always  peering  and  prying,  to 
make  sure  that  every  one  else  was  like  them 
selves.  "You're  doing  different  than  what 
I  did,"  they  said. 

Anna  wanted  to  "do  different."  Yet  she 
was  without  courage  or  wisdom.  And  be 
cause  she  was  sulky  and  heedless,  Mrs. 
Ploughman  called  her  Sara  Barly's  rebel 
lious  daughter.  As  Mrs.  Ploughman  be 
longed  to  the  Methodist  side  of  the  town, 
Mrs.  Tomkins  was  usually  ready  to  disagree 
with  her.  But  on  this  occasion,  all  Mrs. 
75 


AUTUMN 


Tomkins  could  think  to  say,  was:  "Well, 
that's  queer." 

"But  what's  she  got  to  be  rebellious  over?" 
she  asked,  peering  brightly  at  Mrs.  Plough 
man. 

"Perhaps,"  said  Mrs.  Ploughman,  "she's 
sorry  she  wasn't  born  a  boy." 

"Well,"  cried  Mrs.  Tomkins,  "I  never 
heard  of  such  a  thing." 

"There's  lots  you  never  heard  of,  Mrs. 
Tomkins,"  said  Mrs.  Ploughman. 

"And  plenty  I  never  hope  to  hear,"  said 
Mrs.  Tomkins  promptly.  "My  life!" 

After  breakfast,  Anna  helped  her  mother 
with  the  housework.  She  took  a  hand  in 
making  the  beds,  and  put  her  own  room  in 
order  by  tumbling  everything  into  the  closet 
and  shutting  the  door.  Then  she  went  into 
the  kitchen  to  help  with  the  lunch.  When 
76 


RAIN 


Mrs.  Early  saw  her  dreaming  over  the  car 
rots,  she  asked: 

"What  are  you  gaping  at  now?" 

"Nothing." 

Then  Mrs.  Barly  grew  vexed.  "You're 
not  feeble-minded,  I  hope,"  she  said. 

"No,  I'm  not,"  said  Anna. 

,  "I'm  glad  of  that,"  said  Mrs.  Barly. 

When  Anna  said  that  she  was  not  think 
ing  of  anything,  she  believed  that  she  was 
telling  the  truth.  But  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
she  was  thinking  of  Thomas  Frye.  She 
wanted  him  to  be  in  love  with  her,  although 
she  said  to  herself:  "I  am  not  in  love  with 
any  one."  Sometimes  she  thought  that  her 
heart  was  buried  in  France,  with  Noel 
Ploughman.  However,  she  was  mistaken. 
The  tear  she  dropped  in  secret  over  his 
death,  was  for  her  own  youth,  out  of  her 
77 


AUTUMN 


timid,     clumsy,     sweet-and-sour     feelings. 

In  the  afternoon  she  went  for  a  walk. 
The  rain,  starting  again  after  breakfast,  had 
stopped,  but  the  sky  was  still  overcast,  the 
air  damp  and  searching.  From  the  trees 
overhead  as  she  passed,  icy  drops  rained 
down  upon  her ;  she  felt  the  silence  all  about 
her,  and  saw,  from  the  rises,  the  gray  hills, 
the  rolling  mist,  and  the  low  clouds,  trailing 
above  the  woods,  now  light,  now  dark. 

She  was  disappointed  because  life  was 
no  different  than  it  was.  She  had  hoped 
to  find  it  as  delightful  as  in  those  happy  days 
before  the  war,  when  she  played  at  kissing 
games  and  twined  dandelion  wreaths  in  her 
hair.  But  now  it  did  not  amuse  her  to  play 
at  post-office;  she  was  sad  because  she  was 
no  longer  able  to  be  gay.  As  she  passed 
the  little  cottage  belonging  to  Mrs.  Wicket, 
she  thought  to  herself:  "Yes,  you've  seen 
78 


BAIN 


something  of  life.  But  not  what  I  want  to 
see,  exactly.  Look  at  you."  Like  Mrs. 
Grumble,  she  believed  that  Mrs.  Wicket 
had  nothing  more  to  live  for.  "There  you 
are,"  she  said,  "and  there  you'll  be.  Life 
doesn't  mean  even  as  much  as  a  hayride,  so 
far  as  you're  concerned. 

"You,  God,"  she  cried,  "put  something  in 
my  way,  just  once." 

At  that  moment  Juliet,  who  had  been 
peeking  out  from  behind  the  house,  came 
skipping  down  the  path  to  the  road.  As  she 
drew  near,  her  progress  became  slower; 
finally  she  stood  still,  and  balanced  herself 
on  one  leg,  like  a  stork. 

"Hello,"  she  said.  Then  she  looked  up 
and  down  the  road,  to  see  what  there  was  to 
talk  about. 

"I  have  a  little  house  Mr.  Jeminy  made 
me  out  of  boxes,"  she  said  at  last. 
79 


AUTUMN 


"No,"  said  Anna. 

"Well,  that's  a  fact,"  said  Juliet,  who  had 
once  heard  Mr.  Frye  say,  "Well,  that's  a 
fact,"  to  Mr.  Crabbe. 

"My  goodness,"  said  Anna,  "isn't  that 
elegant?"  And  she  looked  down  at  Juliet, 
who  was  staring  solemnly  up  at  her. 

"Yes,  it  is,"  said  Juliet. 

"What  were  you  doing,"  asked  Anna, 
"when  I  came  along?" 

"I  was  playing  going  to  Milford,"  said 
Juliet.  "Do  you  want  to  play  with  me?" 

It  seemed  to  Juliet  that  playing  was  some 
thing  for  any  one  to  do. 

Anna  began  to  laugh.  She  had  a  mind  to 
say,  "Do  you  think  I'm  as  little  as  you  are?" 
But  instead,  she  found  herself  thinking,  "Oh, 
my,  wouldn't  it  be  fun." 

"Why,"  she  cried,  "I  declare,  I  do  want 
to  play  with  you." 

80 


RAIN 


"All  right,"  said  Juliet.  And  she  turned 
soberly  back  to  the  barn,  behind  the 
house.  But  Anna  sat  down  in  the  grass. 
"Just  you  wait,"  she  said,  "till  I  get  my 
shoes  and  stockings  off.  I'm  going  to  play 
proper." 

Presently  their  happy  voices,  linked  in 
laughter,  rose  from  behind  the  house,  where 
Juliet  was  showing  Anna  how  to  play  store. 
She  tied  her  apron  around  her  little  belly, 
and  came  forward  rubbing  her  hands. 
"Would  you  like  some  nice  licorice?"  she 
asked.  "Everything's  very  dear." 

When  she  was  tired  of  playing  store,  she 
began  to  imitate  old  Mrs.  Tomkins,  the 
carpenter's  wife.  "This  is  the  way  to  have 
the  rheumatism,"  she  said.  And  she  hopped 
around  on  one  foot. 

After  they  were  through  playing,  they 
sat  quietly  together  in  the  hay,  in  the  barn, 
81 


AUTUMN 


without  anything  more  to  say.  Anna  was 
warm  and  happy;  she  wanted  to  hug  Juliet, 
to  hold  her  tight,  to  rock  up  and  down  with 
her.  "There,"  she  thought,  "if  I  only  had 
one  like  her." 

"What  are  you  thinking  about?"  she 
asked,  to  tease  her. 

"I  was  just  thinking,"  said  Juliet,  "it's 
fun  to  play  with  people." 

Anna  felt  her  heart  give  a  sudden  twist. 
"Why,  you  dear,  odd  little  thing,"  she  cried. 
And  taking  the  child  in  her  arms,  she  cov 
ered  the  tiny  head  with  kisses.  But  Juliet 
drew  away. 

"I'm  not  little,"  she  said.     "I'm  old." 

"So  am  I  old,"  said  Anna.  She  felt  the 
joy  run  out  of  her;  it  left  her  empty.  "I 
expect  everybody  in  the  world  is  old,"  she 
said.  She  watched  her  hands  move  about 
in  the  hay  like  great  spiders. 
82 


RAIN 


"Is  it  fun  to  be  old,  do  you  think?"  asked 
Juliet. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Anna.  "I  don't 
expect  it  is,  much." 

"Mother  is  old,"  said  Juliet.  "What  do 
old  people  do?" 

Anna  looked  out  through  the  barn  door 
across  the  wet  fields,  the  drenched  hillsides, 
shrouded  in  mist.  "I  don't  know,"  she  said. 
And  she  got  up  to  go  home. 

"Well,  good-by,"  said  Juliet. 

Just  then  Mrs.  Wicket  came  in  from  the 
road,  with  a  basket  on  her  arm.  When  she 
saw  Anna  standing  in  front  of  the  barn, 
she  grew  pink  and  confused.  For  she 
thought  that  Anna  had  come  to  call  on  her. 
"Good  afternoon,"  she  said.  "I  was  out. 
I'm  real  sorry.  Won't  you  come  in?" 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Anna.     "I  was  going  on 
...  I  only  stopped  for  a  minute.  .  .  ." 
83 


AUTUMN 


And  without  another  word  she  ran  down 
the  path,  and  out  of  the  gate.  Mrs.  Wicket 
stood  looking  after  her  in  silence.  Then, 
with  a  sigh,  she  turned,  and  went  indoors. 
But  Anna  ran  and  ran  until  she  was  tired. 
As  she  ran  she  kept  saying  to  herself,  over 
and  over,  "I  won't  be  like  that,  I  won't,  I 
won't." 

It  seemed  to  her  as  though  she  were  run 
ning  away  from  Hillsboro  itself,  running 
away  from  Mrs.  Wicket,  from  her  mother, 
from  Thomas  Frye,  from  Anna  Early,  from 
everything  she  wouldn't  be.  ... 

"I  won't,"  she  cried,  "I  won't,  I  won't,  I 
won't,  I  won't." 

"Never." 

Mr.  Jeminy,  who  was  seated  on  his  coat 
by  the  side  of  the  road,  got  up  with  a  smile. 
"Well,  Anna  Early,"  he  said. 
84 


RAIN 


"Ak,"  she  whispered,  clapping  both  hands 
to  her  mouth,  "how  you  scared  me."  She 
could  feel  her  heart  beating  with  fright ;  her 
lips  trembled,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  She 
stood  staring  at  Mr.  Jeminy,  who  stared 
gravely  back  at  her.  "Are  you  going  to  run 
away  from  me,  too?"  he  asked,  at  last. 

"No,"  said  Anna.  Then,  all  at  once,  she 
burst  out  crying.  "I  can't  help  it,"  she  cried, 
between  her  §obs.  "I  can't  help  it.  D6n't 
look  at  me." 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Jeminy,  "I  won't."  And 
he  gazed  up  at  the  tree  tops,  dark  and  sharp 
against  the  cold,  gray  sky. 

Anna  cried  herself  out.  Then  pale  and 
ashamed,  she  started  home  again  with  Mr. 
Jeminy.  "I  don't  know  what  got  into  me," 
she  said.  "I  don't  know  what  you'll  think." 

"I  think,"  declared  Mr.  Jeminy,  looking 
85 


AUTUMN 


up  at  the  sky,  "I  think — why,  I  think  this 
wet  weather  will  pass,  Anna  Early.  Yes,  to 
morrow  will  be  cold  and  clear." 

Anna  did  not  answer  him.  She  was  tired ; 
she  had  played,  she  had  cried,  now  she 
wanted  to  rest. 

In  Frye's  General  Store,  Mr.  Frye  and 
Mr.  Crabbe  were  disputing  a  game  of  check 
ers.  They  sat  opposite  each  other,  stared 
at  the  checkerboard,  and  stroked  their  chins. 
Farmer  Early  stood  watching  them.  He 
puffed  on  his  pipe,  and  nodded  his  head 
at  every  move.  But  all  the  while  he  was 
thinking  about  Anna.  "Pretty  near  time 
she  was  settling  down,"  he  thought. 

Mr.  Frye  jumped  over  two,  and  leaned 
back  in  his  chair  with  a  satisfied  smile.  The 
hops  of  his  own  men  put  him  into  the  best 
of  humor.  It  was  not  that  he  wanted  to 
win;  he  only  wanted  to  do  all  the  jumping. 
86 


EAIN 


"Let  me  do  the  taking,"  he  would  have  said, 
"and  you  can  do  the  winning."  When  Mr. 
Crabbe  hopped  over  three  in  a  row,  Mr.  Frye 
became  gloomy.  He  felt  that  Mr.  Crabbe 
was  getting  all  the  pleasure.  "You're  too 
spry  for  me,"  he  said.  "You're  like  a  flea. 
Well.  .  .  ." 

"It's  your  turn,  Mr.  F.,"  said  Mr. 
Crabbe. 

Mr.  Frye  looked  at  the  board  with  dis 
taste.  There  were  no  more  jumps  for  him 
to  make.  He  pushed  a  round  black  checker 
forward. 

"There  you  are,"  he  said. 

"Here  I  go,"  declared  Mr.  Crabbe.  And 
he  began  hopping  again. 

Mr.  Frye  shook  his  head.  "I  don't  know 
as  I'm  feeling  very  good  to-day,"  he  told 
Farmer  Barly. 

As  he  was  speaking,  Anna  Barly  entered 
87 


AUTUMN 


the  store,  on  her  way  home.  Thomas  Frye, 
who  was  behind  the  counter,  came  forward 
to  meet  her.  When  she  saw  him,  her 
cheeks,  which  were  pale,  grew  red.  "He 
can  see  I  was  crying,"  she  thought.  "Well, 
I  don't  care.  I  hate  him.  What  did  I  stop 
for?" 

She  remembered  that  her  mother  had 
wanted  a  spool  of  white  cotton.  "Number 
eleven,"  she  said. 

When  she  saw  her  father  and  Mr.  Frye 
in  the  corner,  she  grew  sulkier  than  ever. 
"They're  just  laying  to  settle  me  down," 
she  thought.  And  turning  to  hide  her  face, 
still  stained  with  tears,  she  made  believe  to 
wave  to  some  one,  out  the  window. 

Mr.  Crabbe  took  another  man.     "Tsck," 
said  Mr.  Frye;  "maybe  I'd  better  go  and 
see  what  Anna  wants.     Thomas  don't  ap 
pear  to  know  what  he's  about." 
88 


EAIN 


"Leave  them  be,"  said  Mr.  Crabbe,  "leave 
them  be."  And  he  winked  first  at  Mr. 
Early,  and  then  at  Mr.  Frye.  "Don't  go 
spoiling  things,"  he  said. 

Mr.  Frye  allowed  his  mouth  to  droop  in 
a  thin  smile.  "Young  people  are  slow 
to-day,"  he  remarked.  "They  act  like  they 
had  something  on  their  minds.  Green  fruit 
.  .  .  slow  to  ripe.  In  my  time  we  went  at 
it  smarter."  And  he  looked  thoughtfully  at 
Anna  Barly.  He  saw  her  in  the  form  of 
acres  of  land,  live  stock,  farm  buildings,  and 
money  in  the  bank.  "Molasses,"  he  thought; 
"yes,  sir,  molasses.  Maple  sugar."  But 
when  he  looked  at  his  son  Thomas,  he 
frowned.  "Go  on,"  he  wanted  to  say,  "go 
on,  you  slowpoke." 

Farmer  Barly  also  frowned  at  Thomas 
Frye.  He  felt  that  he  was  being  hurried. 
"She's  well  enough  where  she  is,"  he 
89 


AUTUMN 


thought.  "She's  young  yet.  A  year  or 
two  more  .  .  ." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Crabbe,  "I  look  forward 
to  the  day."  And  he  waved  his  hand  kindly 
in  the  air.  "It's  your  move,  Mr.  F." 

Mr.  Frye  arose,  and  walked  toward  the 
door,  where  Thomas  was  bidding  Anna 
good-by.  "See  you  to-night,"  Thomas 
whispered;  "heh,  Anna?" 

"Please  yourself,"  said  Anna.  And  off 
she  went,  without  looking  at  Mr.  Frye,  who 
had  come  to  speak  to  her.  When  she  was 
gone,  Mr.  Frye  gave  his  son  a  keen  glance. 
In  it  was  both  curiosity  and  malice.  But 
Thomas  turned  away.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  women  must  have  been  easier  to  under 
stand  when  his  father  was  young.  For  no 
one  could  understand  them  now. 

While  the  storekeeper's  back  was  turned, 
Mr.  Crabbe  rearranged  the  checkerboard. 
90 


BAIN 


He  took  up  two  of  Mr.  Frye's  men  and  put 
them  in  his  pocket.  Then  he  winked  at  Mr. 
Early,  as  though  to  say:  "I'm  just  a  leetle 
too  smart  for  him." 

Farmer  Early  winked  back.  It  amused 
him  to  have  Mr.  Frye  beaten  unfairly.  Mr. 
Frye  wanted  to  get  his  daughter  away  from 
him.  "Well,"  he  said  in  his  mind,  to  Mr. 
Frye,  "just  go  easy.  Just  go  easy,  Mr. 
Frye."  And  he  winked  again  at  Mr. 
Crabbe.  "That's  right,"  he  said,  "give  it 
to  him." 

When  Mr.  Jeminy  left  Anna,  at  the  edge 
of  the  village,  he  went  to  call  on  Grand 
mother  Ploughman.  He  found  her  in  the 
company  of  old  Mrs.  Crabbe,  who  had 
brought  her  knitting  over,  for  society's  sake. 
Mrs.  Ploughman  received  him  with  quiet 
dignity,  due  to  a  sense  of  the  wrong  she  had 
suffered,  for  which  she  blamed  Mrs.  Wicket, 
91 


AUTUMN 


and  the  Democratic  Party.  Mr.  Plough 
man,  she  often  said,  had  been  a  good  Re 
publican  all  his  life.  Unfortunately,  he  was 
dead;  otherwise,  things  would  have  been 
different. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  the  country  was 
being  run  by  a  set  of  villains.  "The  world 
is  in  a  bad  way,"  she  declared.  "I  don't 
know  what  we're  coming  to."  And  an  ex 
pression  of  bleak  satisfaction  illuminated 
her  face,  wrinkled  with  age. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Jeminy,  "these  are  un 
happy  times.  I  am  afraid  we  are  leaving 
behind  us  a  difficult  task  for  those  who  fol 
low.  They  had  a  right  to  expect  better 
things  of  us,  Mrs.  Ploughman." 

"I've  not  left  anything  behind,"  said  Mrs. 
Ploughman  decidedly;  "not  yet." 

"I  should  hope  not,"  ejaculated  Mrs. 
Crabbe.  "No." 

92 


RAIN 


"It's  the  young,"  said  Mrs.  Ploughman, 
"who  get  the  old  into  trouble.  Nothing  ever 
suits  them  until  they're  in  mischief;  and 
then  it's  up  to  their  elders  to  pull  them  out 
again.  I  know,  for  I've  seen  it,  father  and 
son." 

"It  is  the  old,"  said  Mr.  Jeminy,  "who 
get  the  young  into  trouble." 

"Is  it,  indeed?"  said  Mrs.  Ploughman. 
"Well,  I  don't  believe  it."  And  she  gave 
Mr.  Jeminy  a  bright,  peaked  look. 
"Then,"  she  continued,  "when  you've  done 
for  them,  year  in  and  year  out,  off  they  go, 
and  that's  the  end  of  it." 

"Ah,  yes,"  croaked  Mrs.  Crabbe;  "off 
they  go." 

"If  it  isn't  one  thing,"  said  Mrs.  Plough 
man,  "it's  another.  Trouble  and  death — 
that's  a  woman's  lot  in  this  world,  like  the 
Good  Book  says." 

93 


AUTUMN 


"Death  is  the  end  of  everything,"  re 
marked  Mrs.  Crabbe. 

"I'm  not  afraid  to  die,"  Mrs.  Ploughman 
declared.  "There's  things  to  do  the  other 
side  of  the  grave,  same  as  here.  And  it's  a 
joy  to  do  them,  in  the  light  of  the  Lord.  I 
can  tell  you,  Mrs.  Crabbe,  I  won't  be  sorry 
to  go.  My  folks  are  waiting  there  for  me." 
Her  voice  trembled,  and  she  rocked  up  and 
down  to  compose  herself.  "He  needn't  try 
to  mix  me  up,"  she  thought  to  herself;  "not 
in  my  own  home.  No." 

"Then,"  said  Mr.  Jeminy,  "you  believe  in 
an  after  life,  Mrs.  Ploughman?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Ploughman  firmly, 
directing  her  remarks  to  Mrs.  Crabbe,  "I 
do.  I  believe  there's  a  life  hereafter,  when 
our  sorrows  will  be  repaid  us.  There 
weren't  all  those  hearts  broke  for  nothing, 
Mrs.  Crabbe,  nor  for  what's  going  on  here 
94 


RAIN 


now,  with  strikes,  and  famine,  and  bloody 
murders." 

"That's  real  edifying,  Mrs.  Ploughman," 
said  Mrs.  Crabbe,  "real  edifying.  Yes," 
she  exclaimed  with  energy,  "these  are  ter 
rible  times.  Now  they  give  me  tea  without 
sugar  in  it.  For  there's  no  sugar  to  be  had. 
Well,  I  won't  drink  it.  I  spit  it  out,  when 
nobody's  looking." 

And  she  plied  her  needles  with  vigor,  to 
show  what  she  thought  of  such  an  arrange 
ment. 

"As  I  was  saying,"  said  Mrs.  Plough 
man,  "it's  the  young  who  get  the  old  into 
trouble.  And  artful  folk,  who'd  ought  to 
know  better,  with  the  life  they've  had.  I've 
had  no  peace  in  this  life.  But  I'll  have  it 
hereafter." 

At  this  reflection  upon  Mrs.  Wicket,  Mr. 
Jeminy  rose  to  go.  "You  are  right,"  he 
95 


AUTUMN 


said;  "no  one  will  disturb  you."  And  he 
went  home  to  Mrs.  Grumble. 

"Where  have  you  been  all  day?"  she  de 
manded. 

Mr.  Jeminy  smiled.  He  knew  that  Mrs. 
Grumble  thought  he  had  been  spending  the 
afternoon  at  Mrs.  Wicket's.  "I  have  been 
to  call  on  Mrs.  Ploughman,"  he  said. 
"There  I  met  old  Mrs.  Crabbe." 

Then  Mrs.  Grumble  hurried  out  into  the 
garden  to  pick  a  mess  of  young  beans  for 
supper,  because  Mr.  Jeminy  liked  them 
better  than  squash.  The  bowl  of  squash  she 
returned  to  the  ice  box.  "I'll  eat  it  myself, 
to-morrow,"  she  thought. 

"Supper  will  be  a  little  late,"  she  said  to 
Mr.  Jeminy,  "because  the  stove  won't  draw 
in  wet  weather." 


VI 
HARVEST 

MR.  JEMINY,  clad  in  a  pair  of 
brown,  earthy  overalls,  a  blue, 
cotton  shirt,  and  a  straw  hat,  full 
of  holes,  was  helping  Mr.  Tomkins  dig  po 
tatoes,  up  on  Early  Hill.  From  the  field  on 
the  slopes  above  the  village,  he  could  see 
the  hills  across  the  valley,  misted  in  the  sun. 
Above  him  stretched  the  shining  sky, 
thronged  with  its  winds,  the  low  clouds  of 
early  autumn  trailing  their  shadows  across 
the  woods.  All  was  peace;  he  saw  Septem 
ber's  yellow  fields,  and  felt,  on  his  face,  the 
cool  fall  wind,  with  its  smoke  of  burning 
leaves,  mingled  with  the  odor  of  spaded 
earth,  and  fresh  manure. 
97 


AUTUMN 


With  every  toss  of  his  fork  he  covered 
with  earth  the  little  piles  of  straw  and 
ordure  which  Mr.  Tomkins  had  spread  on 
the  ground.  As  he  advanced  in  this  man 
ner,  small  flocks  of  sparrows  rose  before 
him,  and  flew  away  with  dissatisfied  cries. 
"Come,"  he  said  to  them,  "the  world  does 
not  belong  to  you.  I  believe  you  have  never 
read  the  works  of  Epictetus,  who  says,  'true 
education  lies  in  learning  to  distinguish 
what  is  ours,  from  what  does  not  belong  to 
us.'  However,  you  have  a  more  modern 
spirit;  for  you  believe  that  whatever  you  see 
belongs  to  you,  providing  you  are  able  to 
get  hold  of  it." 

He  was  happy;  in  the  warm,  noon-day 
drowse,  he  felt,  like  Abraham,  the  grace  of 
God  within  him,  and  found  even  in  the 
humblest  sparrow  enough  to  afford  him  an 
opportunity  to  discuss  morals  with  himself. 
98 


HARVEST 


"There'll  be  potatoes,"  said  Mr.  Tomkins, 
"enough  to  last  all  winter  for  the  two  of 
us.  That's  riches,  Jeminy;  where's  your 
talk  now  of  the  world  being  poor?" 

"Some  of  these  potatoes,"  said  Mr. 
Jeminy,  bending  over,  "are  rotted  from  the 
wet  weather." 

"To-morrow,"  said  Mr.  Tomkins,  "I'll 
borrow  a  harrow  from  Farmer  Early.  And 
next  spring  I'll  plant  corn  here  on  the  hill. 
Table  corn,  that  is.  Then  we'll  have  a  corn- 
husking,  Jeminy;  you  and  I,  and  the  rest 
of  the  young  ones."  And  he  burst  out 
laughing,  in  his  high,  cracked  voice. 

"Do  you  remember  the  last  corn-husk 
ing?"  asked  Mr.  Jeminy.  "It  was  in  the 
autumn  before  the  war.  Anna  Barly  and 
Alec  Stove  lost  themselves  in  the  woods. 
And  Elsie  Cobbler  burned  her  fingers. 
How  she  cried  and  carried  on;  Anna  came 
99 


AUTUMN 


running  back,  to  see  what  it  was  all  about. 
But  before  the  evening  was  over,  she  was 
off  again,  with  Noel  Ploughman." 

Mr.  Tomkins  nodded  his  head.  Timid  in 
the  presence  of  Mr.  Jeminy's  books,  he  was 
happy  and  hearty  in  his  own  potato  patch. 
"I  remember,"  he  said.  "I  remember  more 
than  you  do,  Jeminy.  I  can  look  back  to 
the  first  husking  bee  I  ever  was  at.  That 
was  in  '62.  A  year  later  I  shouldered  a 
gun,  and  went  off  with  the  drafts  of  '63. 
Your  speaking  of  Noel  put  me  in  mind  of 
it. 

"When  I  got  home  again,"  he  continued, 
"there  was  nothing  for  me  to  do.  In  those 
days  folks  did  their  own  work.  Then  there 
was  time  for  everything.  But  the  days  are 
not  as  long  as  they  used  to  be  when  I  was 
young.  Now  there's  no  time  for  anything. 

"But  Noel  was  a  good  man.     He  was 
100 


HARVEST 


handy,  and  amiable.  He  could  lay  a  roof, 
or  mend  a  thresher,  it  was  all  the  same  to 
him.  What  do  you  think,  Jeminy?  Anna 
Barly  won't  forget  him  in  a  hurry — heh?" 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Jeminy;  "no,  Anna  won't 
forget  him  in  a  hurry.  That  is  as  it  should 
be,  William.  She  believes  that  she  has  suf 
fered.  And  if  she  fools  herself  a  little,  I, 
for  one,  would  be  inclined  to  forgive  her." 

"She  won't  fool  herself  any,"  said  Mr. 
Tomkins;  "not  Anna.  Wait  and  see." 

The  shadows  of  late  afternoon  stretched 
half  across  the  field  when  Mr.  Jeminy  laid 
down  his  fork,  and  started  to  return  home. 
As  he  followed  Mr.  Tomkins  down  the  hill, 
he  saw  the  tops  of  the  clouds  lighted  by  the 
descending  sun,  and  heard,  across  the  valley, 
the  harsh  notes  of  a  cow's  horn,  calling  the 
hands  on  Ploughman's  Farm  in  from  the 
fields. 

101 


AUTUMN 


He  stopped  a  moment  at  a  shadowy 
spring,  hidden  away  among  the  ferns,  for 
a  cup  of  cold,  clear  water.  Holding  the  cup, 
made  of  tin,  to  his  lips,  he  observed: 

"Thus,  of  old,  the  farmer  stooped  to  re 
fresh  himself.  When  he  was  done,  he  gave 
thanks  to  the  rustic  god,  who  watched  his 
house,  and  protected  his  flocks.  They  were 
the  best  of  friends;  each  was  modest  and 
reasonable.  To-day  God  is  like  a  dead 
ancestor;  there  is  no  way  to  argue  with 
him." 

"I'm  glad,"  said  Mr.  Tomkins,  "that  the 
minister  isn't  here  to  listen  to  you.  Come 
along  now;  I've  plenty  still  to  do  before 
supper.  The  widow  Wicket's  gate  is  down. 
But  I've  promised  to  set  a  fence  for  Farmer 
Early  first." 

"You  need  help,  William,"  remarked  Mr. 
102 


HARVEST 


Jeminy  thoughtfully;  "you  need  help.  I 
must  see  what  I  can  do."  And  he  went 
home,  down  the  hill,  after  Mr.  Tomkins. 

The  next  day  he  started  out  early  in 
the  morning.  When  Mrs.  Grumble  asked 
him  where  he  was  going,  he  replied,  "I  must 
step  over  to  Mr.  Tomkins,  to  help  him  with 
something." 

From  Mr.  Tomkins  he  borrowed  a  saw,  a 
plane,  a  hammer,  and  a  box  of  nails.  Then 
he  hurried  off  to  mend  Mrs.  Wicket's  gate. 
On  the  way  he  stopped  to  gather  an  armful 
of  goldenrod  for  his  friend,  and  also  to  pick 
a  yellow  aster  for  himself,  from  Mrs.  Cob 
bler's  garden. 

When  he  arrived  at  Mrs.  Wicket's  cot 
tage,  the  widow's  pale  face  and  listless 
manner,  filled  him  with  alarm.  "IVe  been 
up  with  Juliet,"  she  said.  "The  child  has  a 
103 


AUTUMN 


touch  of  croup.  It's  nothing.  She's  better 
this  morning."  And  she  gave  him  her  hand, 
still  cold  with  the  chill  of  night. 

"Good  heavens,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Jeminy; 
"I  am  sure  Mrs.  Grumble  would  have  been 
glad  to  keep  you  company." 

Mrs.  Wicket  smiled.  But  she  did  not 
answer  this  declaration,  which  Mr.  Jeminy 
knew  in  his  heart  to  be  untrue. 

Putting  down  his  tools,  he  began  to  ex 
amine  the  gate.  "Hm,"  he  said.  "Hm. 
Yes,  I'll  soon  have  this  fixed  for  you." 
Mrs.  Wicket  stood  watching  him  with  a 
gentle  smile.  "You're  very  kind,"  she  said. 
"It's  very  kind  of  you,  Mr.  Jeminy.  Most 
folks  are  too  proud  to  turn  a  hand  for  me, 
no  matter  what  was  to  happen." 

"Tut,"  said  Mr.  Jeminy. 

"Well,  it's  a  fact,"  said  Mrs.  Wicket 
gravely.  "I've  never  felt  loneliness  like  I 
104 


HARVEST 


do  here.  Not  ever.  Because  I've  had 
trouble,  Mr.  Jeminy,  and  known  sorrow, 
folks  leave  me  alone.  I'd  go  away  .  .  . 
only  where  would  I  go?" 

"Sorrow,"  said  Mr.  Jeminy,  "is  a  good 
friend,  Mrs.  Wicket.  Sorrow  and  poverty 
are  close  to  our  hearts.  They  teach  the 
spirit  to  be  resolute  and  indulgent. 

"One  must  also  learn,"  he  added,  "to  bear 
sorrow  without  being  vexed  by  it." 

"IVe  never  had  sorrow  without  being 
vexed  by  it,"  said  Mrs.  Wicket.  "To  my 
way  of  thinking,  sorrow  comes  so  full  of 
troubles,  it's  hard  to  tell  what's  one,  and 
what's  the  other." 

"Sorrow,"  said  Mr.  Jeminy,  "comes  only 
to  the  humble  and  the  wise.  It  is  the  emo 
tion  of  a  gentle  and  courageous  spirit.  But 
wherever  trouble  is  found,  there  is  also  to  be 
found  envy,  pride,  and  vanity.  It  is  good 
105 


AUTUMN 


to  be  humble,  Mrs.  Wicket;  in  humility  lie 
the  forces  of  peace.  The  humble  heart  is 
an  impregnable  fortress." 

And  he  tapped  his  breast,  as  though  to 
say,  "Here  is  a  whole  army." 

"Yes,"  she  mused,  "yes  .  .  .  but  the 
heart's  liable  to  break,  too,  after  a  while." 

"Not  the  humble  heart,"  said  Mr.  Jeminy 
firmly.  "No  .  .  .  you  cannot  break  the 
humble  heart." 

Mrs.  Wicket  stood  gazing  at  the  ground, 
twisting  her  apron  with  her  hands.  On  her 
face  was  a  look  of  pity  for  Mr.  Jeminy, 
because  she  had  heard  that  he  was  not  to 
teach  school  any  longer.  "It  will  be  a  hard 
blow  to  him,"  she  thought. 

"Few,"  continued  Mr.  Jeminy,  "go  very 

long  without  their  share  of  sorrow.     And 

sorrow  is  not  a  light  thing  to  bear,  Mrs. 

Wicket.     Poverty,  also,  falls  to  the  lot  of 

106 


HARVEST 


most  of  us;  and  it  is  not  easy  to  be  poor. 
Yet  to  be  poor,  to  be  sad,  and  to  be  brave, 
is  indeed  the  best  of  life.  He  who  wants 
little  for  himself,  is  a  happy  man.  If  he  is 
wise,  he  will  pity  those  who  have  more  than 
they  need.  He  will  not  envy  them;  he  will 
see  the  trouble  they  are  making  for  them 
selves.  There  is  no  end  of  pity  in  this 
world,  Mrs.  Wicket ;  like  love,  it  makes  rich 
men  of  us  all." 

Mrs.  Wicket  nodded  her  head.  "Yes," 
she  said,  "it's  a  blessing  to  feel  pity.  It 
makes  you  strong,  like.  The  humble  heart 
is  a  power  of  strength." 

And  she  went  back  to  Juliet,  who  had 
begun  to  cough  again.  Left  to  himself,  Mr. 
Jeminy  regarded  the  gate-post  with  a 
thoughtful  air.  But  inwardly  he  was  very 
much  pleased  with  himself. 

That  year  they  kept  harvest  home  before 
107 


AUTUMN 


September  was  fairly  done.  In  the  mead 
ows  the  hay,  gathered  in  stacks,  shone  in  the 
moonlight  like  little  hills  of  snow;  and  in 
the  shadows  the  crickets  hopped  and  sang, 
repeating  with  shrill  voices,  the  murmurs  of 
lovers,  hidden  in  the  woods. 

Anna  Early  and  her  friends  watched  the 
moon  come  up  along  the  road  to  Adams' 
Forge.  In  Ezra  Adams'  hay  wagon  they 
were  singing  the  harvest  in.  Their  voices 
rolled  across  the  fields  in  lovely  glees,  rose  in 
the  old,  familiar  songs,  broke  into  laughter, 
and  died  away  in  whispers.  Thus  they  re 
newed  their  interrupted  youth,  and  cele 
brated  the  return  of  peace. 

It  was  a  cold,  still  night,  with  dew  white  as 
frost  over  the  ground.  Anna,  huddled  in 
the  hay,  could  see  her  breath  go  out  in  fog; 
while  the  moon,  shining  in  her  face,  seemed 
to  veil  in  shadow  the  forms  of  her  compan- 
108 


HARVEST 

ions — Elsie  Cobbler  with  her  round,  soft 
elbow  over  Brandon  Adam's  face,  Susie 
Ploughman  murmuring  to  Alec  Stove  .  .  . 
She  was  chilly  and  wakeful;  and  watching 
the  moon  through  miles  of  empty  sky,  heard, 
as  if  from  far  away,  the  singing  up  front, 
back  of  the  driver's  seat,  and  Thomas, 
whispering  at  her  side. 

"What    a    grand    night.     Clear    as     a 
bell." 

"Yes,"  said  Anna,  "It's  lovely." 
She  lay  back  against  the  posts  of  the  hay- 
wagon,  her  young  face  lifted  to  the  sky. 
Her  heart  was  full ;  the  beauty  of  the  night, 
the  hoarse,  familiar  sounds,  the  shining,  silent 
fields,  and  the  pale,  lofty  sky,  filled  her  with 
longing  and  regret.  She  closed  her  eyes; 
was  it  Noel,  there,  or  Thomas?  It  was  love, 
it  was  youth  to  be  loved,  to  be  held,  to  be 
hugged  to  her  breast. 

109 


AUTUMN 


"Listen  .  .  .  they're  singing  Love's  Old 
Sweet  Song." 

The  song  died  out,  leaving  the  night  quiet 
as  before,  cold,  silvery,  urgent.  She  drew 
nearer  to  him;  he  breathed  the  simple  fra 
grance  of  her  hair,  and  felt  the  faint  warmth 
of  her  body,  close  to  his.  Then  silence 
seized  upon  Thomas  Frye;  he  grew  sad 
without  knowing  why.  The  figures  at  his 
side,  curled  in  the  hay,  seemed  to  him  ghostly 
as  a  dream.  Poor  Thomas;  he  was  addled 
with  moonlight;  moonlight  over  Anna,  over 
him/moonlight  over  the  hills,  over  the  road, 
and  voices  unseen  in  the  shadows,  and  shad 
ows  unheard  all  around  him. 

"I  could  go  on  like  this  till  the  end  of 
time." 

"Could  you?" 

"I  could  ride  like  this  forever  and  ever." 

Anna  lay  quiet,  lulled  by  the  cold  and 
110 


HARVEST 


the  gentle  movement  of  the  wagon,  now  fast, 
now  slow.  "Together?"  she  asked.  "Like 
this?" 

"That's  what  I  mean." 

His  hand  touched  hers;  their  fingers 
twined  about  each  other.  "I  know,"  said 
Anna.  She,  too,  could  have  gone  on  for 
ever,  dreaming  in  the  moonlight.  Noel  .  .  . 
Thomas  .  .  .  what  was  the  difference? 
"Don't  talk.  Look  at  the  trees,  up  against 
the  moon.  Look  at  my  breath;  there's  a 
regular  fog  of  it." 

"Are  you  cold?"  He  bent  to  wrap  the 
heavy  blanket  more  snugly  about  her.  He 
wanted  to  say:  "You  belong  to  me,  and  I 
belong  to  you."  And  at  that  moment,  with 
all  her  heart,  Anna  wanted  to  belong  to 
some  one,  wanted  some  one  to  belong  to 
her  .  .  . 

"Thanks,  Tom— dear." 
Ill 


AUTUMN 


The  haywagon  crossed  the  first  rise,  south 
of  the  village.  Below  the  road,  a  rocky 
field  swept  downward  to  the  woods,  pale 
green  and  silver  in  the  moonlight;  and  be 
yond,  far  off  and  faint,  rose  Barly  Hill, 
with  Barly's  lamp  burning  as  bright  for  all 
the  distance,  as  if  it  hung  just  over  those 
trees,  still,  and  faint  with  shadows. 

"See,"  said  Anna,  "there's  our  light." 

But  Thomas  did  not  even  lift  his  head  to 
look.  In  the  chilly,  solemn,  night  air,  he 
was  warm  and  drowsy  with  his  own  silence, 
which  being  all  too  full  of  things  to  say  was 
like  to  turn  him  into  sugar  with  pure  sor 
row.  And  Anna,  her  round  lips  parted  with 
desire,  waited  for  him  to  speak,  and  held 
his  hand  tighter  and  tighter. 

"Starlight,"  she  murmured,  "starbright, 
very  first  star  I  see  to-night,  wish  I  may, 
wish  I  might  .  .  ." 

112 


HARVEST 


"Sky's  fuU  of  stars,"  said  Thomas. 

"Do  you  know  what  I  wished?" 

"Do  I?" 

"Don't  you?" 

He  looked  at  her  in  silence;  awkwardly, 
then,  she  drew  him  down,  until  her  lips 
brushed  his  cheek. 

"Look  at  Elsie,"  she  murmured.  "Did 
you  ever?" 

But  Thomas  would  not  look  at  Elsie;  not 
until  Anna  had  told  him  her  wish.  "Wish 
I  may,  wish  I  might  .  .  ." 

"Have  the  wish  .  .  ." 

But  she  would  only  whisper  it  in  his  ear. 

Miles  away,  in  Mrs.  Wicket's  cottage, 
Mr.  Jeminy  sat  dreaming,  and  rocking  up 
and  down.  He  had  come  to  keep  an  eye 
on  Juliet,  so  that  Mrs.  Wicket  could  sit 
with  Mrs.  Tomkins,  who  was  feeling 
poorly.  While  Juliet,  at  his  feet,  played 
113 


AUTUMN 


with  her  dolls,  Mr.  Jeminy  gave  himself  up 
to  reflection.  He  thought:  "The  little  in 
sects  which  run  about  my  garden  paths  at 
home,  and  eat  what  I  had  intended  for  my 
self,  are  not  more  lonely  than  I  am.  For 
here,  within  the  walls  of  my  mind,  there  is 
only  myself.  And  you,  Anna  Barly,  you  can 
not  give  poor  Thomas  Frye  what  he  wishes. 
Do  not  deceive  yourself;  when  you  are  gone, 
he  will  be  as  lonely  as  before.  Come,  con 
fess,  in  your  heart  that  pleases  you;  you 
would  not  have  it  otherwise.  We  are  all 
lenders  and  borrowers  until  we  die;  it  is 
only  the  dead  who  give." 

When  Juliet  was  tired  of  playing,  she  put 
her  dolls  to  bed,  and  settled  herself  in  Mr. 
Jeminy's  lap.  There,  while  the  lamplight 
danced  across  the  walls,  drowsy  with  sleep, 
she  ended  her  day.  "Tell  me  a  story.  Tell 
114 


HARVEST 


me  about  the  big,  white  bull,  who  swam  over 
the  sea." 

"Hm  .  .  .  well  .  .  .  once  upon  a  time 
there  was  a  great  white  bull  ..." 

Then  Mr.  Jemmy  rehearsed  again  the 
story  of  long,  long  ago,  while  the  bright  eyes 
closed,  and  the  tired  head  drooped  lower 
and  lower;  while  the  autumn  moon  rose  up 
above  the  hills,  and  the  haywagon  rumbled 
along  the  road,  to  the  sound  of  laughter  and 
cries. 

But  Thomas  Frye  and  Anna  Barly  were 
no  longer  seated  in  the  hay,  watching  the 
harvest  in.  Unobserved  by  the  others,  they 
had  stolen  away  before  the  wagon  reached 
Milford.  Now  they  were  lying  in  a  field, 
looking  up  at  the  stars,  quieter  than  the 
crickets,  which  were  singing  all  about  them. 


115 


VII 

MRS.  GRUMBLE 
GOES  TO  THE  FAIR 

SEPTEMBER'S  round  moon  waned; 
Indian    summer    was    over.       One 
morning  in  October  Miss  Beal,  the 
dressmaker,  had  taken  her  sewing  to  Mr. 
Jeminy's,  in  order  to  spend  the  day  with 
Mrs.  Grumble.     There,  as  she  sat  rocking 
up  and  down  in  the  kitchen,  the  fall  wind 
brought  to  her  nose  the   odor  of  grapes 
ripening  in  the  sun.    The  corn  stood  gath 
ered  in  the  fields,  and  in  the  yellow  barley 
stubble  the  grasshopper,   old   and  brown, 
leaped  full  of  love  upon  his  neighbor.    Mrs. 
Grumble,   beside  a  pile  of  Mr.   Jeminy's 
winter  clothes,  sorted,  mended,  and  darned, 
116 


MRS.  GRUMBLE  GOES  TO  FAIR 

while  the  sun  fell  through  the  window, 
bright  and  hot  across  her  shoulders.  She 
kept  one  eye  on  the  oven  where  her  biscuits 
were  baking,  counted  stitches,  and  listened 
to  Miss  Beal,  who  tilted  solemnly  forward 
in  her  chair  when  she  had  anything  to  say, 
and  moved  solemnly  back  again  when  it  was 
over. 

"Mrs.  Stove,"  declared  Miss  Beal,  lean 
ing  forward  and  looking  up  at  Mrs. 
Grumble,  "won't  have  a  new  dress  this  year. 
Well,  she's  right,  material  is  dreadful  to  get. 
As  I  said  to  her:  Mrs.  Stove,  your  old 
dress  will  do;  just  let  me  fix  it  up  a  little. 
No,  she  says,  she'll  wear  it  as  it  is." 

"Look  at  me,"  said  Mrs.  Grumble. 
"Here's  an  old  rag.  But  I  get  along." 

"Indeed  you  do,"  said  Miss  Beal.  "Still," 
she  added,  speaking  for  herself,  "one  has  to 
live." 

117 


AUTUMN 


"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Grumble 
airily. 

"Goodness,"  exclaimed  the  dressmaker. 
"Gracious,  Mrs.  Grumble." 

"I  declare,"  avowed  Mrs.  Grumble, 
"what  with  things  costing  what  they  do,  and 
every  one  so  mean,  I'd  die  as  glad  as  not,  out 
of  spite." 

"I  wouldn't  want  to  die,"  said  Miss  Beal 
slowly.  "It's  too  awful.  I  want  to  stay 
alive,  looking  around." 

"You're  just  as  curious,"  said  Mrs. 
Grumble.  "Well,  there,  I'm  not.  Men  are 
a  bad  lot.  You  can't  trust  a  one  of  them. 
Not  for  long." 

"Yes,"  sighed  Miss  Beal,  "there's  a  good 
deal  I  want  to  see.  I'd  like  to  see  Niagara 
Falls,  Mrs.  Grumble." 

"Lor',"  said  Mrs.  Grumble,  "a  lot  of 
water." 

118 


MRS.  GRUMBLE  GOES  TO  FAIR 

."All  coming  down,"  said  the  dressmaker, 
"crashing  and  falling." 

"I'd  rather  see  a  circus,"  declared  Mrs. 
Grumble. 

"Would  you  now?"  asked  Miss  Beal,  and 
her  fingers  ran  in  and  out,  in  and  out,  faster 
than  ever,  "would  you,  now?  Well,  then 
.  .  .  there's  a  fair  at  Milford  this  blessed 
afternoon." 

"Would  you  go  along?"  asked  Mrs. 
Grumble. 

"Glory,"  said  Miss  Beal. 

"I  was  going  anyhow,"  said  Mrs. 
Grumble. 

Then  Miss  Beal  began  to  giggle.  "Well, 
I  declare,"  she  remarked,  "I  feel  that 
young." 

"Go  away,"  said  Mrs.  Grumble;  "to  hear 
you  talk  .  .  ."  She  was  in  the  best  of 
humor. 

119 


AUTUMN 


"All  the  young  folks  will  be  there,"  said 
Miss  Beal.  "I  heard  as  how  Alec  Stove  was 
going  with  Susie  Ploughman.  And  there's 
Thomas  Frye'.  .  .  .  and  Anna  Early  .  .  ." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Grumble. 

Miss  Beal  held  up  her  thread  against  the 
light.  "There's  a  queer  thing,"  she  admit 
ted.  "I  can't  make  head  nor  tail  of  it.  Do 
you  think  there's  an  understanding  between 
them,  Mrs.  Grumble?" 

"If  there  is,"  said  Mrs.  Grumble,  "then 
Thomas  has  more  sense  than  I  gave  him 
credit  for.  Because  how  any  one  could  have 
an  understanding  with  that  wild  thing,  is 
more  than  I  can  see." 

"How  she  carries  on,"  agreed  Miss-  Beal, 
"first  with  Noel,  when  he  was  alive,  and 
now  with  him." 

"Ah,"  remarked  Mrs.  Grumble,  "those 
are  the  new  ideas.  She  has  her  head  full  of 
120 


MES.  GRUMBLE  GOES  TO  FAIR 

them.  Only  the  other  day,  down  to  the 
store,  I  heard  her  say  to  Mr.  Frye:  'It's 
the  old  who  are  always  getting  the  young 
into  trouble.'  " 

"Just  think  of  that,"  said  Miss  Beal. 

"To  my  way  of  thinking,"  continued  Mrs. 
Grumble,  "the  shoe  is  on  the  other  foot. 
What  with  the  young  folks  growing  up  so 
wild,  we  must  all  be  as  busy  as  thieves  to 
keep  what  belongs  to  us." 

"And  what  belongs  to  us,  Mrs. 
Grumble?"  asked  the  dressmaker,  lifting 
from  her  lap  a  dress  designed  for  Mrs. 
Sneath,  the  butcher's  wife. 

"No  more  than  what  we  can  get,"  replied 
Mrs.  Grumble,  with  a  shake  of  her  head. 
"And  that's  little  enough." 

"Then,"  said  Miss  Beal,  "what  do  you 
think  Anna  Barly  meant  by  saying  'twas 
the  old  had  got  her  into  trouble?" 
121 


AUTUMN 


"Why,  bless  your  soul,"  said  Mrs. 
Grumble. 

Miss  Beal,  from  the  front  of  her  chair, 
regarded  her  friend  with  round  and  serious 
eyes.  "I  don't  rightly  know,  Mrs.  Grum 
ble,"  she  said,  "but  I  came  on  her  yesterday, 
and  I  declare  if  she  hadn't  been  crying. 
Last  night  I  dreamed  old  Mrs.  Tomkins 
died.  And  you  know,  Mrs.  Grumble, 
dream  of  the  dead  ..." 

"Go  away,"  said  Mrs.  Grumble. 

"Mind,"  quoth  Miss  Beal,  "I  don't  mean 
to  say  there's  anything  as  shouldn't  be. 
Still,  nothing  would  surprise  me." 

"There's  no  use  talking,"  cried  Mrs. 
Grumble,  "because  I  don't  believe  a  word 
of  it."  But  she  felt  it  her  duty  to  add: 
"For  all  I  never  saw  Anna  look  so  poorly." 

"A  touch  of  influenza,"  answered  Miss 
122 


MRS.  GRUMBLE  GOES  TO  FAIR 

Beal,  "so  Sara  Barly  says.  Lord  save  us: 
a  big  healthy  girl  like  Anna." 

"It's  the  healthy  ones  who  get  it,"  said 
Mrs.  Grumble  with  a  sigh.  "God  moves  in 
a  mysterious  way." 

"His  wonders  to  perform." 

Mrs.  Grumble  arose  and  placed  a  kettle 
of  water  on  the  stove.  "We'll  have  some 
tea,"  she  saicf,  "and  I'll  cook  you  some  frit 
ters.  Jeminy  is  out.  Then  we'll  go  to  the 
fair." 

"Glory,"  said  Miss  Beal. 

After  lunch  the  two  women  put  on 
their  bonnets  and  went  to  take  their  seats 
in  the  Milford  stage*  As  the  wagon  set  out, 
creaking  and  crowded,  everyone  began  to 
talk;  and  so,  with  cheeks  reddened  by  the 
wind,  rolled,  still  talking,  into  Milford. 

The  fair  grounds  were  in  a  meadow, 
123 


AUTUMN 


bounded  on  one  side  by  a  stream,  and,  be 
yond  it,  a  wood  already  brown  and  blue  with 
cold.  Over  the  dead  grass  the  bright  colors 
of  the  fair  shone  in  the  sun;  one  could  hear 
the  music  and  the  voices  almost  a  mile  away. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  field  rose  a  gentle 
slope  covered  with  goldenrod  and  white  and 
purple  blooms  in  which  the  bees  and  wasps 
were  still  busy.  There,  above  the  crowd  of 
men  and  women,  the  happy  insects  were 
bringing  to  a  close  their  own  bazaar,  begun 
amid  the  showers  of  early  spring.  Here 
was  the  bee,  with  his  milch-cow,  the  ant 
with  her  souvenir,  and  the  mild  cricket, 
amused  like  Miss  Beal  by  everything. 
Here,  also,  the  wealthy  spider,  slung  upon 
her  twig,  waited  in  patience  for  the  home 
less  fly.  And  as,  in  comfort,  she  fed  upon 
his  juices,  she  exclaimed:  "The  right  to 
fasten  my  web  to  this  twig  is  a  serious  mat- 
124 


MRS.  GRUMBLE  GOES  TO  FAIR 

ter.  For  without  me  the  fly  would  be 
wasted,  and  would  not  obtain  a  proper 
burial." 

"I  am  very  comfortable  here,"  she  added, 
"and  I  believe  I  have  a  right  to  this  place, 
which,  but  for  me,  would  be  only  a  twig, 
and  of  no  use  to  anybody." 

Below,  in  the  meadow,  our  two  friends 
went  arm  in  arm  about  the  fair  grounds; 
Miss  Beal  bought,  as  her  first  purchase,  a 
spool  of  ribbon;  and  Mrs.  Grumble  had  her 
fortune  told.  They  rode  on  the  carousel, 
all  the  while  thinking:  "This  is  really  too 
silly."  As  Mrs.  Grumble  climbed  down 
from  her  wooden  horse,  she  said  to  herself: 
"I'm  having  as  good  a  time  as  that  little 
girl  with  the  pigtails,  who  is  going  around 
for  the  fifth  time." 

If  they  turned  west,  their  eyes  were  filled 
with  the  afternoon  sun;  when  they  looked 
125 


rAUTUMN 


east,  they  saw  the  maples,  yellow  and  green, 
against  the  farther  woods,  the  autumn  sky, 
swept  by  its  bright  winds.  All  about 
them  men  and  women  rejoiced  in  the  sun 
shine,  told  each  other  it  was  a  fine  day,  and 
looked  for  some  cause  of  dispute. 

"The  races  are  going  to  begin,"  said  Mrs. 
Grumble,  and  taking  her  friend  by  the  arm, 
made  her  way  toward  the  track,  where  she 
could  see  the  horses  going  gravely  up  and 
down.  "There  is  a  good  one,"  she  said;  "see 
how  he  jumps  about." 

The  drivers  wheeled  into  line,  and  sped 
away  with  a  rush;  the  band  played  and  the 
spectators  shouted. 

"Oh,  my,"  said  Miss  Beal,  "look  there." 
And  she  pointed  to  where  Mr.  Jeminy, 
close  to  the  fence,  was  dancing  up  and 
down,  waving  his  hat  in  the  air.  "Why,  the 
old  fool,"  said  Mrs.  Grumble. 
126 


MRS.  GRUMBLE  GOES  TO  FAIR 

"At  his  age,"  echoed  Miss  Beal. 

But  it  did  not  amuse  Mrs.  Grumble  to 
hear  anyone  else  find  fault  with  Mr.  Jeminy. 
"He's  enjoying  himself,"  she  said.  "I  don't 
know  as  how  we've  any  call  to  make  re 
marks." 

"I  only  said  cat  his  age,' "  replied  Miss 
Beal  hastily.  But  when  she  thought  it  over, 
it  occurred  to  her  that  she  was  right,  and 
Mrs.  Grumble  was  wrong.  Without  cour 
age  on  her  own  account,  she  was  able  to 
defend  with  energy  the  general  opinion.  "I 
said  'at  his  age,'  "  she  repeated  more  firmly. 

Mrs.  Grumble  folded  her  hands,  and  as 
sumed  a  forbidding  expression.  "I  expect," 
she  said,  "that  Mr.  Jeminy  is  old  enough  to 
do  as  he  pleases." 

"Maybe  he  is,"  answered  the  dressmaker, 
nettled  by  her  friend's  tone,  "maybe  he  is. 
And  maybe  there's  others  old  enough  to 
127 


AUTUMN 


know  what's  right  in  a  man  of  his  years, 
Mrs.  Grumble." 

"At  any  rate,"  remarked  Mrs.  Grumble, 
"it's  not  for  you  to  say." 

"It's  not  alone  me  is  saying  it,"  replied 
Miss  Seal.  "What's  more,"  she  added, 
"for  all  I  don't  like  to  repeat  this  to  you, 
Mrs.  Grumble,  there's  many  think  Mr. 
Jeminy  is  too  old  to  teach  school  any  longer. 
There's  some  would  like  to  see  a  young 
woman  at  the  schoolhouse." 

"Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Grumble. 

Miss  Beal  laid  her  hand  on  her  friend's 
arm  in  a  gesture  at  once  triumphant  and 
consoling.  "Never  you  mind,"  she  said; 
"trouble  comes  to  all." 

Mr.  Jeminy  went  home  from  the  fair  with 

a  light  heart.    He  started  early,  because  he 

liked  to  walk;  and  he  carried  in  his  hand 

a  bit  of  lace  for  Mrs.  Grumble.    As  he  went 

128 


MRS.  GRUMBLE  GOES  TO  FAIR 

down  the  road,  beneath  the  turning  leaves, 
and  through  the  shadows  cast  by  the  de 
scending  sun,  he  began  to  sing,  out  of  the 
fullness  of  his  heart,  the  following  song: 

The  Lord  of  all  things, 
With  liberalitee, 
Maketh  the  small  birds, 
To  sing  on  every  tree. 

The  Lord  of  all  things, 
He  maketh  also  me; 
Giveth  me  no  wings, 
Giveth  me  no  words. 

When  Mr.  Jeminy  had  sung  as  much  as  he 
liked,  he  went  on  to  say:  "In  autumn  the 
birds  go  south  by  easy  stages;  to-day  there 
songs  are  departed  from  these  woods,  where 
their  is  none  left  but  the  catbird,  to  creak 
upon  the  bough.  Soon  snow  will  cover  the 
earth,  in  which  nothing  is  growing.  But 
129 


AUTUMN 


you,  happy  song  birds,  will  build  your  nests 
far  away,  in  green  and  windy  trees,  and 
your  quarrels  will  fill  distant  valleys  with 


music." 


When  Mr.  Jeminy  was  nearly  home  he 
looked  behind  him  and  saw  Thomas  Frye 
and  Anna  Early  returning  from  the  fair. 
He  drew  aside  to  let  them  pass,  and  with 
the  sun  shining  in  his  eyes,  he  thought  to 
himself,  "Only  the  young  are  happy  to 
day." 


130 


VIII 

THE  TURN 
OF  THE  YEAR 

A    FORTNIGHT  later,  the  dress 
maker    was    called    in    haste    to 
Early  Farm,  to  sew  coarse  and 
fine  linen,  and  a  dress  for  Anna  to  be  mar 
ried  in.     But  it  all  had  to  be  done  within 
the  week,  towels,  sheets,  pillow-cases,  table 
cloths,  and  aprons.     "More  than  a  body 
could  sew  in  a  month,"  she  declared.     For 
Anna  was  going  to  have  a  baby.    "Do  what 
you  can,"  said  Mrs.  Early,  "and  we'll  have 
to  get  along  with  that."     And  so  we  find 
Miss  Beal  at  the  farm  by  eight  each  morn 
ing,  wishing  the  day  were  longer,  to  enable 
her  tongue  to  catch  up  to  her  fingers;  for 
131 


'AUTUMN 


she  thought  that  she  knew  a  thing  or  two, 
and  could  see  what  was  directly  in  front  of 
her  nose.  "I'm  nobody's  fool,"  she  said, 
as  she  guided  the  cloth,  snapped  the  thread, 
and  rocked  the  treadle  of  the  sewing  ma 
chine  ;  and  she  sang  to  herself  from  morning 
to  evening.  As  the  only  songs  she  knew 
were  from  the  hymnal,  she  sang,  with  a 
heart  overflowing  with  praise: 

Ah  how  shall  fallen  man 

Be  just  before  his  God? 

If  He  contend  in  righteousness, 

We  sink  beneath  His  rod.    Amen. 

or  again: 

Who  place  on  Sion's  God  their  trust 
Like  Sion's  rock  shall  stand, 
Like  her  immovable  be  fixed 
By  His  almighty  hand.    Amen. 

She  was  happy;  it  seemed  to  her  that 
132 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  YEAR 

God,  to  whom  she  lifted  up  her  prayers, 
was  wise  and  active,  watching  every  spar 
row.  She  was  satisfied  that  young  folks 
were  no  better  off  than  in  her  own  day,  but 
might  expect  to  find  themselves,  if  they  fell 
from  grace,  as  wretched  as  in  the  past. 

When  Sara  Barly  had  made  the  dress 
maker  comfortable  in  the  spare  room,  she 
went  down  to  the  kitchen  in  search  of  Anna. 
But  Anna  was  in  the  barn  with  Tabitha,  the 
cat,  whose  new-born  kittens  filled  her  with 
glee.  Mrs.  Barly  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
kitchen,  as  idle  as  her  pots,  and  looked  out 
through  the  window  at  the  brown  and  yel 
low  fields.  When  she  had  tied  her  apron 
on,  she  felt  dull  and  tired;  it  seemed  to  her 
as  if  she  were  no  longer  virtuous,  yet  had 
not  received  anything  in  return  for  what 
she  had  given.  And  because  she  felt  as  if 
she  had  been  cheated,  she,  also,  lifted  up 
133 


AUTUMN 


her  voice  to  God.  "Oh,  God,"  she  said,  "all 
my  life  I  never  did  anything  like  that." 

By  way  of  answer,  she  heard  the  low  hum 
of  the  sewing  machine,  and  the  alleluias  of 
the  dressmaker,  singing  as  though  she  were 
in  church. 

Farmer  Barly  was  down  in  the  south  pas 
ture,  with  the  schoolmaster's  friend,  Mr. 
Tomkins;  he  wanted  to  put  up  a  swinging 
gate  between  the  south  field  and  the  road. 
But  all  at  once  he  felt  like  saying:  "I  don't 
want  a  gate  at  all;  I  want  a  fence  to  shut 
people  out."  For  when  he  thought  of 
Anna,  in  the  gay  autumn  weather,  he  felt 
old  and  moldy. 

"A  bad  year,"  said  Mr.  Tomkins;  "still, 
I  guess  you're  not  worrying.  I  understand 
you  put  a  silo  in  your  barn.  But  I  suppose 
you  have  your  own  reasons  for  doing  it.  A 
good  year  for  cows,  what  with  the  grass. 
134 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  YEAR 

I  hear  you're  thinking  of  buying  Crabbe's 
Jersey  bull.  A  fine  animal;  I'd  like  him 
myself." 

"You're  welcome  to  him,"  said  Mr. 
Barly. 

"Ah,"  said  Mr.  Tomkins,  "he's  beyond 
me,  Mr.  Barly,  beyond  my  means.  I'm  not 
a  rich  man.  But  I  have  my  health." 

"What  are  riches?"  asked  Mr.  Barly. 
"They're  a  source  of  trouble,  Mr.  Tomkins. 
They  teach  a  young  girl  to  waste  her  time." 

"Well,  trouble,"  said  Mr.  Tomkins. 
"But  what's  trouble?  Between  you  and  me, 
a  bit  of  trouble  is  good  for  us  all.  Then 
we're  liable  to  know  better." 

Mr.  Barly  shook  his  head  wearily.  "I 
don't  know,"  he  said;  "folks  are  queer 
crotchets." 

"Why,  then,"    said    Mr.    Tomkins,    "so 
they  are ;  and  so  would  I  be,  as  crotchety  as 
135 


AUTUMN 


you  like,  if  I  owned  anything  beyond  the 
little  I  have." 

"Small  good  it  would  do  you,"  said  Mr. 
Barly.  "Life  is  a  heavy  cross,  having  or 
not  having,  what  with  other  people  doing 
as  they  please."  And  taking  leave  of  Mr. 
Tomkins,  he  went  home,  thinking  that  in  a 
world  where  people  robbed  their  neighbors, 
it  were  better  not  to  possess  anything. 

As  he  passed  the  potato  patch,  he  heard 
Abner  singing,  without  much  tune  to  his 
voice,  a  song  he  had  learned  in  the  army. 
"Ay,"  muttered  Mr.  Early,  "go  on — sing. 
You've  learned  that  much,  anyway,  I  may 
as  well  sing,  myself,  for  all  the  good  I've 
ever  had  attending  to  my  business.  I'll 
sing  a  good  one;  then  I'll  be  right  along 
with  everybody,  and  let  come  what  may." 

Anna,  too,  heard  Abner  singing,  as  she 
knelt  in  front  of  the  basket  where  the 
136 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  YEAR 

mother  cat  lay  with  her  four  blind  kittens. 
"You  see,  Tabby,"  she  said,  "people  still 
sing.  A  lot  of  them  learned  to  sing  in  the 
war,  and  now  they're  home,  they  may  as 
well  sing  as  cry.  Oh,  Tabby,  I  wanted  to 
sing,  too  .  .  .  now  look  at  me. 

"I  went  out  so  grand,"  she  said.  "I  was 
going  to  find  all  sorts  of  things.  But  what 
did  I  find?" 

At  that  moment,  John  Henry  entered  the 
barn,  smoking  his  corncob  pipe.  When  the 
smell  of  smoke  reached  Anna,  she  grew 
weak  and  ill,  and  stumbling  back  to  the 
house,  went  upstairs  to  rest.  But  even  to 
climb  the  stairs  made  her  catch  her  breath. 
Now,  before  breakfast  of  a  morning,  she 
was  deathly  sick;  afterwards  she  was  tired, 
and  ready  to  cry  over  anything.  Poor 
Anna;  she  was  dumb  with  shame.  "I'm 
worse  than  Mrs.  Wicket,"  she  said  to  her- 
137 


AUTUMN 


self,  over  and  over  again.  "I'm  worse  than 
Mrs.  Wicket.  My  life  is  ruined.  I'd  be 
better  dead." 

And  what  of  honest  Thomas?  He  was 
pale  with  fright.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if 
the  devil  had  reached  up,  and  caught  him 
by  the  leg.  He  was  in  for  it.  But  like 
a  fly  in  a  web,  he  could  not  believe  that  it 
was  not  some  other  fly.  "Oh,  God,"  he 
prayed,  "look  down  .  .  .  say  something  to 


me." 


When  Mr.  Jeminy  was  told  that  Thomas 
Frye  and  Anna  Early  were  to  be  married, 
he  exclaimed:  "What  a  shame. 

"Yes,"  he  continued  with  energy,  "what 
a  shame,  Mrs.  Grumble.  They  did  as  they 
were  bid.  Now  they  know  that  love  is  a 
trap  to  catch  the  young,  and  tie  them 
up  once  and  for  all,  close  to  the  kitchen 
sink." 

138 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  YEAR 

"No  one  bade  them  do  what  they'd  no 
right  to  do,"  said  Mrs.  Grumble. 

"They  did,"  replied  Mr.  Jeminy  sensibly, 
"only  what  they  were  meant  to  do.  Youth 
was  not  made  for  the  chimney  corner,  Mrs. 
Grumble.  And  love  is  not  all  one  piece. 
We  make  it  so,  because  we  are  timid  and 
indolent.  We  like  to  think  that  one  rule 
fits  everything;  that  everything  is  simple 
and  familiar.  Even  God,  Mrs.  Grumble,  in 
your  opinion,  is  an  old  man,  like  myself." 

"He  is  not,"  said  Mrs.  Grumble. 

"Yes,"  continued  Mr.  Jeminy,  "you  be 
lieve  that  God  is  an  old  man,  insulted  by 
everything.  Now  he  has  been  insulted  by 
Anna  Early,  who  did  as  she  had  a  mind  to. 
Well,  well  .  .  ." 

"No  matter,"  said  Mrs.  Grumble  com 
fortably,  "there's  the  baby;  you  can't  get 
around  that." 

139 


AUTUMN 


"Mrs.  Grumble,"  said  Mr.  Jeminy  ear 
nestly,  "I  am  going  to  Farmer  Early.  I  am 
going  to  say  to  him,  'Let  me  have  Anna's 
baby,  and  we'll  say  no  more  about  it.' 
Yes,  that  is  what  I  am  going  to  do." 

"Well,"  gasped  Mrs.  Grumble,  throwing 
herself  back  in  her  chair,  "well,  I  never  .  .  . 
so  that's  it  ...  I  can  tell  you  this :  the  day 
that  baby  comes  into  this  house,  I  go  out 
of  it.  Why,  who  ever  heard  of  such  a  thing? 
No,  indeed." 

"There,"  she  thought  to  herself,  "that's 
what  comes  of  people  like  Mrs.  Wicket." 

"Mrs.  Grumble,"  said  Mr.  Jeminy. 

"I've  no  more  to  say,"  said  Mrs. 
Grumble. 

"Mrs.  Grumble,"  pleaded  Mr.  Jeminy, 

"I  am  an  old  man.    There  is  nothing  left 

for  me  to  do  in  the  world  any  more.    I  am 

sure  you  would  be  pleased   with  Anna's 

140 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  YEAR 

baby.    Let  us  do  this  much  for  youth;  for 
the  new  world." 

"I  declare,"  cried  Mrs.  Grumble,  you'll 
drive  me  clean  out  of  my  wits.  The  new 
world  .  .  .  you  mean  Sodom  and  Gomor 
rah,  more  like.  The  new  world  .  .  .  sakes 
alive." 

"Mrs.  Grumble,"  said  Mr.  Jeminy,  "the 
old  world  is  dead  and  gone.  Let  the  young 
be  free  to  build  a  new  world.  It  will  be 
happier  than  ours.  It  will  be  a  world  of 
love,  and  candor.  Perhaps  it  will  be  also 
a  world  of  poverty.  That  would  not  do  any 
harm,  Mrs.  Grumble." 

"A  fine  world,"  said  Mrs.  Grumble. 
"At  least,  I  won't  live  to  see  much  of  it,  I've 
that  to  be  thankful  for." 

"Finer   than   what   it   is,"   retorted   Mr. 
Jeminy,  losing  his  temper,  "finer  than  what 
it  is.    Not  the  same,  sad  pattern." 
141 


AUTUMN 


"The  old  pattern  is  good  enough  for  me," 
replied  Mrs.  Grumble. 

"You're  a  fossil,"  said  Mr.  Jeminy. 

Then  Mrs.  Grumble  raised  her  voice  in 
prayer.  "Lord,"  she  prayed,  "don't  let  me 
forget  myself.  Because  if  I  do  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  that's  it,"  cried  Mr.  Jeminy,  "stop 
up  your  ears  .  .  ."  And  out  he  went  in  a 
rage.  Mrs.  Grumble,  left  alone,  looked 
after  him  with  flashing  eyes  and  a  heaving 
bosom.  "Oh,"  she  breathed,  "if  I  could 
only  lay  my  hands  on  him." 

But  when  she  did,  at  last,  lay  hands  on 
him,  it  was  not  in  the  way  she  looked  for, 
as  she  sat  rocking  up  and  down,  waiting  for 
him  to  come  home  again. 


142 


IX 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER 

LEAVES  HILLSBORO,  HIS  WORK 

THERE  SEEMINGLY  AT  AN  END 

MR.  JEMINY  came  slowly  out  of 
the  post-office,  and  turned  up  the 
road  leading  to  his  house.    In  one 
hand,  crumpled  in  his  pocket,  he  held  his 
dismissal  from  Hillsboro  school:   "On  ac 
count  of  age,"  it  said.     Next  morning,  at 
nine  o'clock,  the  new  teacher  was  coming  to 
take  over  the  little   schoolhouse,   with   its 
splintered  desks,  the  dusty  blackboard,  and 
the  colored  maps. 

As  he  walked,  the  sun  sank  in  the  west, 
and  evening  crept  up  the  road  after  him. 
The  air  was  damp;  he  could  see  his  breath 
143 


AUTUMN 


pass  out  in  fog  before  his  face.  The  wind, 
blowing  above  his  head,  showered  down  the 
last  dried,  yellow  leaves  upon  his  path; 
before  him  he  saw  the  chilly  sky  with  its 
faint,  lonely  star,  and  over  him  the  half 
moon,  like  a  slice ;  and  he  heard  the  autumn 
wind,  steady  and  cold.  "You  fields,"  he 
said,  "y°u  trees,  you  meadows  and  little 
paths,  I  do  not  believe  you  wanted  to  dis 
miss  me.  You  must  have  enjoyed  the 
daisy  chains  my  pupils  used  to  weave  for 
you  in  the  spring.  Now  they  will  learn  the 
use  of  figures  and  percents,  and  the  names 
of  cities  I  have  forgot.  I  will  never  hear 
again  the  voices  of  children  at  the  playhour 
come  tumbling  in  through  the  school  win 
dows.  For  at  my  age  one  does  not  begin 
to  teach  again.  But  it  is  ridiculous  to  say 
that  I  am  an  old  man." 

It   grew   darker   and   darker,   the   trees 
144 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER  LEAVES 

creaked  and  popped  in  the  cold,  or  groaned 
like  bass  viols;  and  all  along  the  roadside 
Mr.  Jeminy  could  see  the  feeble  glimmer 
of  fireflies,  fallen  among  the  leaves.  He 
said  to  them,  "Little  creatures,  my  flame  is 
also  spent.  But  I  do  not  intend,  like  you, 
to  lie  by  the  roadside  in  the  wind,  and  keep 
myself  warm  with  memories.  Now  I  am 
going  where  I  can  be  of  use  to  others.  For 
I  am  brisk  and  tough,  and  do  not  hope  to 
gain  by  my  efforts  more  than  I  deserve." 
Thus,  following  his  thoughts,  Mr.  Jem 
iny  passed,  without  knowing  it,  the  house 
where  Mrs.  Grumble,  sitting  by  the  stove, 
awaited  his  return.  The  moon,  riding  out 
the  wind  above  his  head,  peered  down  at 
him  between  the  branches,  as  he  stepped 
from  shadow  into  moonlight,  and  again  into 
shadow.  Under  the  trees  the  dry,  fallen 
leaves  stirred  about  his  feet,  and  other 
145 


AUTUMN 


leaves,  which  he  could  not  see,  fell  near  him 
in  the  dark.  As  he  passed  the  little  orchard 
belonging  to  Mrs.  Wicket,  he  heard  the  ripe 
apples  dropping  in  the  night. 

In  the  gray  of  dawn,  he  found  himself  ap 
proaching  a  farmhouse  somewhere  south  of 
Milford,  whose  lighted  lamp,  pale  yellow 
in  the  early  twilight,  drew  him  from  the 
road,  across  the  fields.  As  he  turned  through 
the  tumbled  gate,  a  woman  came  to  the 
door,  her  dress  billowing  back  from  her  in 
the  breeze. 

"Come  in,  old  man,"  she  said. 


146 


X 


BUT  HE  IS 

SOUGHT  AFTER  ALL 

IN"  Mrs.  Tomkin's  garden  the  hydran 
geas  were  already  pink  with  frost,  and 
the  leaves  of  the  maples,  fallen  upon 
the  ground,  covered  the  earth  with  patches 
of  yellow  and  red.  By  the  side  of  the  road, 
piles  of  leaves,  raked  together  by  Mr.  Tom- 
kins,  were  set  on  fire;  they  burned  with  a 
crackle  and  a  roar,  and  gave  off  an  odor  at 
once  pungent  and  regretful,  which  mingled 
in  the  fresh  autumn  air  with  the  fragrance 
of  grapes  and  cider,  as  the  last  apples  of  the 
season,  too  old  and  ripe  to  keep,  went  to 
the  press  back  of  the  barn. 

Juliet  liked  to  play  in  Mrs.   Tomkins' 
147 


AUTUMN 


garden,  where  the  hens,  each  anxious  to  be 
not  the  first,  but  the  second,  ran  after  each 
other  as  though  to  say,  "You  go  and  see, 
and  I'll  come  and  look." 

Now  she  sat  on  the  steps  of  Mrs.  Tom- 
kins'  porch  with  her  doll  Sara,  while  her 
mother,  Mrs.  Wicket,  watched  at  the  bed 
side  of  Mrs.  Grumble,  who  was  very  ill. 
Juliet  did  not  realize  how  ill  she  was;  she 
thought  Mrs.  Grumble  might  have  croup. 
But  Mrs.  Ploughman,  who  sat  on  the  porch 
with  Mrs.  Tomkins,  knew  that  Mrs. 
Grumble  had  pneumonia.  "Got,"  she  ex 
plained,  "by  setting  up  that  night,  when  Mr. 
Jeminy  never  came  home." 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Tomkins,  "he  never  came 
home.  If  it  had  been  me,  in  Mrs.  Grumble's 
place,  I'd  have  gone  to  bed,  instead  of  parad 
ing  around  with  a  lantern  all  night,  catch 
ing  my  death." 

148 


BUT  HE  IS  SOUGHT  AFTER  ALL 

"Mr.  Jeminy,"  said  Mrs.  Ploughman, 
"was  a  queer  man,  and  no  mistake.  I  re 
member  the  day  he  stepped  in  to  pay  me  a 
call.  Mrs.  Crabbe  was  with  me.  'Mrs. 
Ploughman,'  he  said,  'and  you,  Mrs.  Crabbe, 
we're  leaving  a  lot  of  trouble  behind  us.' 
Fancy  that,  Mrs.  Tomkins — as  though  I'd 
up  and  go  any  minute.  'Mr.  Jeminy,'  I 
said,  'I'm  not  afraid  to  die.  When  my  time 
comes,  111  go  joyfully.' ' 

"No  doubt  you  will,"  said  Mrs.  Tomkins 
comfortably. 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Ploughman,  "it's  a 
good  thing,  in  my  opinion,  he  was  made  to 
give  up  teaching  school.  It's  a  wonder  the 
children  know  anything  at  all,  Mrs.  Tom- 
kins.  I  declare,  it  used  to  mix  me  up  some 
thing  terrible,  just  to  listen  to  him." 

Mrs.  Tomkins  gazed  at  her  sewing  with 
thoughtful  pleasure.  "It  was  a  hard  blow 
149 


AUTUMN 


to  him,"  she  said.  "He  did  his  best.  Maybe 
he  was  a  little  queer.  But  he  harmed  no 
one.  He  used  to  tell  the  children  stories. 

"How  is  Mrs.  Grumble,"  she  asked,  "to 
day?" 

"Weak,"  said  Mrs.  Ploughman;  "very 
weak,  out  of  her  mind  part  of  the  time  with 
the  fever." 

"Do  you  calculate  she'll  die,  Mrs. 
Ploughman?" 

"I  don't  know.  But  I  don't  calculate 
she'll  live,  Mrs.  Tomkins.  Still,  we  must 
hope  for  the  best.  This  is  the  way  it  was; 
first  the  influenza,  and  then  the  pneumony. 
Double  pneumony,  the  doctor  says.  There's 
a  lot  of  it  aroun4  again,  like  last  year.  It 
takes  the  young  and  the  hardy.  It  woji't 
get  me.  No. 

"There's  nothing  to  do  for  it,"  she  added, 
"nothing,  that  is,  beyond  nursing." 
150 


BUT  HE  IS  SOUGHT  AFTER  ALL 

"If  it  wasn't  for  Mrs.  Wicket,"  said  Mrs. 
Tomkins,  "I  expect  she'd  have  been  dead 
before  this.  Mrs.  Wicket's  a  capable  woman 
in  things  like  that.  Capabler  than  Miss 
Beal.  There  was  no  one  else  ever  made  me 
so  comfortable.  I  have  to  say  that  about 
her;  Mrs.  Grumble's  getting  the  best  of 
care.  And  I'm  looking  after  Juliet.  Not 
that  she's  any  trouble;  she's  as  quiet  as  a 
mouse,  playing  all  day  long  with  her  dolls." 

But  Mrs.  Ploughman  could  not  find  it  in 
her  heart  to  forgive  Mrs.  Wicket  for  having 
been  the  cause  of  her  grandson  Noel's 
death.  "Yes,"  she  said,  "I  expect  Mrs. 
Grumble's  getting  good  care.  But  when  a 
body's  dying,  'tisn't  so  much  care  you  want, 
as  salvation.  I  wouldn't  want  any  Jezebel 
hanging  over  my  deathbed,  Mrs.  Tomkins, 
thank  you." 

Mrs.  Tomkins,  who  attended  each  Sun- 
151 


AUTUMN 


day  the  little  Baptist  church  at  Adams' 
Forge,  did  not  believe  that  she  and  Mrs. 
Ploughman  would  meet  in  heaven.  How 
ever,  she  did  not  choose  this  moment  to  men 
tion  it.  "It  may  be  as  you  say,  Mrs. 
Ploughman,"  she  remarked,  "or  it  may  be 
that  we've  been  too  hard  on  Mrs.  Wicket. 
Mind  you,  I  don't  speak  for  her  life  with 
that  bad  egg  of  Eben  Wicket's.  But  we 
ought  to  forgive  others  as  we  would  have 
others  forgive  us." 

"You  needn't  quote  Gospels  to  me,"  de 
clared  Mrs.  Ploughman;  "I'm  as  easy  to  for 
give  as  the  next  one,  where  there's  a  reason 
for  it.  I  don't  hold  it  against  Mrs.  Wicket 
that  she  drove  my  Noel  to  his  death.  No.  I 
forgive  her  for  it.  And  I  don't  blame  Mr. 
Jeminy  for  going  off,  if  he  had  a  mind  to, 
and  leaving  Mrs.  Grumble  to  catch  the 
pneumony." 

152 


BUT  HE  IS  SOUGHT  AFTER  ALL 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Tomkins. 

"But  there's  this  much  queer,"  said  Mrs. 
Ploughman:  "The  way  she  takes  on  in  the 
fever.  She  does  nothing  but  call  him  back, 
Mrs.  Tomkins.  'Mr.  Jeminy,'  she  hollers, 
'where's  the  old  rascal?'  she  says.  Then  she 
goes  on  about  his  being  in  some  trouble,  and 
she  has  to  get  him  out  of  it.  'He's  in  the 
toils,'  she  says;  'he's  with  the  scarlet 


woman.' " 


"My  life!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Tomkins. 

"I  declare,"  said  Mrs.  Ploughman,  "I 
wouldn't  be  Mrs.  Wicket,  or  Miss  Beal,  not 
for  a  thousand  dollars." 

Mrs.  Tomkins  sighed.  "It's  real  sad," 
she  said.  "I'd  like  to  find  Mr.  Jeminy;  it 
would  ease  the  old  woman's  last  hours.  But 
he's  likely  far  away  by  this  time.  And 
there's  no  one  could  spare  the  time  to  go 
after  him,  even  if  a  body  knew  where  he 
153 


AUTUMN 


was.  Though  I've  an  idea  he  went  south, 
through  Milford.  Walking,  I  should  say." 

"The  ole  vagabone,"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Ploughman. 

"Yes,"  Mrs.  Tomkins  declared  with  en 
ergy,  "it's  a  wicked  sin,  Mrs.  Ploughman, 
for  him  to  be  away  now,  and  Mrs.  Grumble 
taken  down  mortal.  He's  been  a  good 
friend  to  William  for  nigh  on  twenty  years. 
I'd  go  after  him  myself,  if  it  weren't  for  my 
rheumatism." 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Ploughman,  "I  never 
heard  of  such  a  thing." 

"There's  lots  you  never  heard  of,  Mrs. 
Ploughman,"  said  Mrs.  Tomkins.  And 
folding  her  hands,  she  gazed  at  her  friend 
with  quiet  satisfaction. 

Little  Juliet,  playing  on  the  steps  with 
her  doll  Sara,  missed  none  of  this  conversa 
tion,  only  a  part  of  which,  however,  she 
154 


BUT  HE  IS  SOUGHT  AFTER  ALL 

understood.  While  she  dressed  and  un 
dressed  her  child,  made  of  rags  and  sawdust, 
put  her  to  sleep  and  woke  her  up  again,  she 
was  listening  with  attention  first  to  Mrs. 
Tomkins,  and  then  to  Mrs.  Ploughman. 

"Let's  play  you're  Mrs.  Grumble,"  she 
told  Sara.  And  she  covered  the  doll  with 
her  handkerchief.  Sara  did  not  mind  the 
square  piece  of  cambric,  which  Juliet  often 
used  to  carry  small  handfuls  of  earth  from 
one  place  to  another.  "I'm  mother,"  said 
Juliet.  Rising  to  her  feet,  she  went  out 
into  the  garden,  and  returned  again.  "My 
dear  Mrs.  Grumble,"  she  exclaimed,  "how 
do  you  feel  to-day?" 

"Very  poorly,  thank  you,5'  replied  Sara, 
in  that  curious  squeak  with  which  all  of 
Juliet's  children  answered  their  mother. 

"Well,    that's    too    bad,"     said    Juliet. 
"Where  does  it  hurt  you,  Mrs.  G.?" 
155 


AUTUMN 


"In  the  stummick,"  squeaked  Sara. 

Juliet  shook  her  head  soberly.  "Dear 
me,"  she  said.  "Well,  cheer  up,  Mrs. 
Grumble;  what  would  you  like  to  have?" 

"Ice  cream,"  said  Sara  hopefully,  "and 
fritters." 

"All  right,"  said  Juliet.  She  went  back 
into  the  garden,  >vhence  she  presently  re 
turned  with  a  few  dead  leaves  and  some 
mud.  "Here,"  she  said;  "here's  the  ice 
cream.  And  here's  the  fritters.  Don't  get 
sick,  now,  will  you?" 

"No,"  said  Sara. 

Her  mother  gazed  at  her  with  sympathy. 
"What  else  would  you  like?"  she  inquired. 

"I'd  like  Mr.  Jeminy,"  squeaked  Sara. 
"He's  in  the  toils." 

"I'll  go  and  see  if  I  can  find  him,"  said 
Juliet.  And  she  began  to  look  about  for 
a  twig,  or  a  small  branch,  suitable  for  Mr. 
156 


BUT  HE  IS  SOUGHT  AFTER  ALL 

Jeminy.  But  all  at  once  she  grew  thought 
ful.  It  had  occurred  to  her  that  to  look 
for  Mr.  Jeminy  in  the  flesh  would  be  a  de 
lightful  adventure.  It  would  please  every 
one.  She  sat  down  on  the  porch  steps  to 
think  it  over. 

In  the  first  place,  it  would  be  necessary  to 
slip  off  unobserved.  For  although  Mrs. 
Tomkins,  by  her  own  account,  would  be  glad 
to  have  Mr.  Jeminy  back  again,  Juliet  felt 
that  she  could  not  explain  to  Mrs.  Tomkins 
exactly  what  she  intended  to  do.  As  for  the 
trip,  an  umbrella  in  case  of  rain,  and  the 
company  of  Sara  would  be  sufficient.  Then 
it  was  only  a  question  of  walking  in  the 
direction  of  Milford,  before  she  came  on  Mr. 
Jeminy  in  the  middle  of  the  road;  so  Mrs. 
Tomkins  had  said. 

With  Sara  under  her  arm,  she  tiptoed 
around  to  the  rear  of  the  house,  skipped 
157 


AUTUMN 


through  the  yard,  climbed  the  low  fence,  and 
hurried  home.  There  she  put  on  her  best 
bonnet,  and  took  her  mother's  umbrella  from 
the  closet.  Then  she  went  back  to  her  own 
room  and  took  down  her  penny  bank. 
Holding  it  upside  down,  she  began  to  shake 
it  as  hard  as  she  could.  But  only  five  pen 
nies  fell  out.  "That's  enough,"  she  decided. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  with  five  pennies  she 
could  buy  almost  anything. 

When  she  went  to  bid  good-by  to  her 
family,  she  decided  that  Sara  was  not  the 
doll  she  would  take  along  with  her,  after  all. 
For  Anna  had  a  bonnet,  whereas  Sara  had 
none.  Anna  also  wore  a  new  dress,  made 
for  her  by  Mrs.  Wicket  out  of  an  old  petti 
coat.  Sara  was  better  company,  but  Anna 
would  be  more  respected  along  the  road. 

"I  guess  I'll  take  you,  Anna,"  said  Juliet. 
"No  use  your  pulling  a  face,  Sara,"  she 
158 


BUT  HE  IS  SOUGHT  AFTER  ALL 

added;  "it  won't  get  you  anything.  You 
can't  go.  So  you  may  as  well  know  it. 
Maybe  if  you're  good,  I'll  bring  you  some 
thing  back." 

And  off  she  went  down  the  road  to  Mil- 
ford,  Anna  under  one  arm  and  the  umbrella 
under  the  other. 

For  a  while,  as  she  walked,  she  told  her 
self  stories.  She  believed  that  she  was  the 
princess  of  one  of  Mr.  Jeminy's  fairy  tales ; 
then  Anna  became  a  duchess,  or  an  old 
queen.  The  fact  that  nothing  unusual  hap 
pened  to  her,  did  not  seem  to  her  of  any 
importance;  she  saw  the  russet  fields,  the 
bare  woods,  the  solemn  clouds,  and  far  off 
shine  and  shadow;  and  walked  with  serious 
pomp  for  her  own  delight,  as  long  as  she 
was  able. 

But  after  a  while  she  grew  tired,  and  sat 
down  by  the  roadside  to  rest.  As  she  sat 
159 


AUTUMN 


there,  the  sun  sank  lower,  and  the  gathering 
chill  of  evening  made  itself  felt  in  the  air. 
Then  for  the  first  time  doubt  as  to  the  wis 
dom  of  her  course  presented  itself  to  her. 

"We're  going  to  catch  it  when  we  get 
home,"  she  told  Anna. 

With  a  feeling  of  dismay,  she  remembered 
how  far  away  from  home  she  was.  The 
hush  of  evening,  the  silence  of  the  fields, 
filled  her  head  with  vague  fears.  She  held 
her  doll  tightly  to  her  breast  for  comfort. 
The  little  red  squirrel,  flirting  along  the  low 
stone  wall,  seemed  to  peer  at  her  as  though 
to  say:  "This  is  where  I  live.  But  where 
do  you  live?  You  can't  live  here;  I  won't 
have  it."  Juliet  began  to  shiver  with  cold. 

"Oh,  goodness,"  she  whispered  to  Anna, 
"I'm  going  to  catch  it  when  I  get  home." 

But  to  start  for  home  again  in  the  gloom, 
took  more  courage  than  she  had  left  her. 
160 


BUT  HE  IS  SOUGHT  AFTER  ALL 

Grasping  her  umbrella,  her  five  pennies,  and 
her  doll,  she  retreated  to  the  middle  of  the 
road.  "Mr.  Jeminy,"  she  cried,  "Mr. 
Jemmy,  where  are  you?" 

The  silence,  more  ghostly  than  before, 
was  not  to  be  endured.  "Mr.  Jeminy,"  she 
called  at  the  top  of  her  voice,  "Mr.  Jeminy, 
Mr.  Jeminy,  Mr.  Jeminy. 

"Oh,  please  come  back." 

She  was  saved  the  ignominy  of  tears.  For 
at  that  moment  she  heard  from  down  the 
road  a  sound  of  wheels,  and  the  beat  of 
hoofs.  And  presently  a  farm  wagon,  drawn 
by  an  old  white  horse,  approached  her  in  the 
twilight. 

"Well,  bite  me,"  said  the  farmer,  peering 
at  her  over  the  front  of  the  wagon.  "Are 
you  lost,  child?" 

"No,  sir,"  said  Juliet.  Now  that  she  was 
found,  she  was  in  the  best  of  spirits,  all 
161 


AUTUMN 


sprightliness  and  wheedle.  "I'm  not  lost. 
I'm  looking  for  somebody." 

"Do  tell,"  said  the  farmer.  "A  friend  of 
yourn?" 

"An  old  man,"  said  Juliet.  "An  old,  old 
man.  He's  a  friend  of  mine.  I  have  to 
tell  him  to  come  home  as  fast  as  he  can, 
because  it's  a  wicked  sin." 

"Does  he  live  hereabouts?"  asked  the 
farmer. 

"He  used  to,"  said  Juliet,  "but  he  ran 
away.  Now  Mrs.  Grumble's  sick,  he  ought 
to  come  home  again,  and  ease  her  last 
hours." 

The  farmer  began  to  chuckle.  "What's 
the  old  gaffer's  name?" 

"Mr.  Jeminy,"  said  Juliet. 

"Hop  in,"  said  the  farmer.  "I'll  take 
you  along.  He's  been  stopping  with  Aaron 
Bade,  over  to  the  Forge.  I  declare,  if  that 
162 


BUT  HE  IS  SOUGHT  AFTER  ALL 

don't  beat  all.  Curl  up  in  the  hay,  child, 
it'll  keep  you  warm.  What  were  you 
doing,  hollering  for  him?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Juliet. 

The  farm  wagon  started  on  again, 
through  the  rapidly  falling  dusk.  Juliet, 
under  a  blanket  in  the  hay,  looked  up  at 
the  tall  figure  of  the  farmer,  set  like  a  giant 
above  her. 

"Mister,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  ma'am?" 

"Did  he  come  with  a  scarlet  woman,  did 
you  hear?" 

"Not  so  far  as  I  know.  No,  he  came  all 
alone,  early  in  the  morning.  Wasn't  any 
body  with  him." 

Beneath  her  blanket,  Juliet  hugged  Anna 
to  her  breast.  "There,  you  see,"  she  whis 
pered.  And  in  her  fresh,  young  voice,  she 
began  to  sing,  while  the  wagon  rattled  down 
163 


AUTUMN 


the  road  to  Milford,  a  song  she  had  heard 
her  mother  singing  the  year  Noel  Plough 
man  died. 

'Love  is  the  first  thing, 
Love  goes  past. 
Sorrow  is  the  next  thing, 
Quiet  is  the  last. 

Love  is  a  good  thing, 
Quiet  isn't  bad, 
But  sorrow  is  the  best  thing 
IVe  ever  had." 


164 


XI 

AND  IS  FOUND 
IN  GOOD  HANDS 

FROM  the  Bade  farmhouse,  a  mile 
below  Hemlock  Mountain,  the  road 
winds  down  to  Adams'  Forge,  past 
Aaron  Bade's  stony  fields.     To  the  north 
lies  Milford;  but  to  the  south  lies  that  en 
chanting  land,  blue  in  the  distance,  misty 
in  the  sun,  which  the  heart  delights  to  call 
its  home. 

It  is  the  land  we  see  from  any  hilltop. 
As  we  gaze  at  its  far  off  rises,  its  hazy, 
shadowy  valleys,  we  feel  within  us  a  long 
ing  and  a  faint  melancholy.  There,  we 
think,  dwell  the  friends  who  would  love  us, 
if  we  were  known  to  them,  and  there,  too, 
165 


AUTUMN 


must  be  found  the  beauty  and  the  happi 
ness  that  we  have  failed  to  discover  where 
we  are.  It  seems  to  us  that  there,  in  the 
distance,  we  should  be  happier,  we  should 
be  more  amiable  and  more  dignified. 

Aaron  Bade,  tied  to  his  rocky  farm  on 
the  slopes  above  Adams'  Forge,  remembered 
with  a  feeling  of  pleasure  his  one  journey 
as  far  south  as  Attleboro.  He  had  been 
obliged  to  return  home  before  he  had  found 
the  happiness  which  he  had  expected  to  find. 
However,  once  he  was  home,  he  realized  that 
he  had  left  it  behind  him,  in  Attleboro,  or 
just  a  little  further  south  .  .  . 

Now,  at  forty,  he  was  neither  happy 
nor  unhappy,  but  turned  back  in  his  mind 
to  the  fancies  of  his  youth,  and  enjoyed,  in 
imagination,  the  travels  denied  him  in 
reality. 

He  had  no  love  for  the  farm,  which  had 
166 


AND  IS  FOUND  IN  GOOD  HANDS 

belonged  to  his  father;  an  old  flute,  on  which 
his  father  used  to  play,  was  more  of  a  treas 
ure  to  him.  Often  in  summer,  as  day  faded, 
and  the  dews  of  night  descended;  when  the 
clear  lights  in  the  valley  were  set  twinkling 
one  by  one,  leaving  the  uplands  to  the  winds 
and  stars,  Aaron  Bade,  perched  upon  his 
pasture  bars,  piped  to  the  faintly  glowing 
sky  his  awkward  thoughts  and  clumsy 
feelings. 

In  the  morning  he  took  leave  of  his  wife, 
and  with  his  hoe  slung  over  his  shoulder, 
made  his  way  down  to  the  cornfield.  There, 
seated  upon  a  stone,  he  saw  himself  in  Attle- 
boro  again,  pictured  to  himself  the  country 
side  beyond,  and  before  noon,  was  half  way 
round  the  world,  leaving  friends  behind  him 
in  every  land.  Then,  with  a  sigh,  he  would 
go  in  among  the  corn  with  his  weeder,  only 
to  stand  dreaming  at  every  rustle  of  wind, 
1G7 


AUTUMN 


seeing,  in  his  mind,  the  smoke  of  distant 
cities,  hearing,  in  fancy,  the  booming  of  for 
eign  seas. 

His  wife  was  no  longer  a  young  woman. 
As  a  girl  she  had  also  had  hopes  for  herself. 
It  seemed  to  her,  when  she  chose  Aaron 
Bade,  that  in  his  company,  life  would  be 
surprising  and  delightful.  She  expected  to 
see  something  of  the  world — he  spoke  of  it 
so  much.  But  she  was  mistaken.  For 
Aaron's  travels  were  all  of  the  mind.  And 
she  soon  discovered  that  the  more  he  talked, 
the  more  there  remained  for  her  to  do.  Thus 
her  hopes  died  away;  between  the  stove  and 
the  chickens,  and  what  with  cleaning,  wash 
ing,  sweeping  and  dusting,  she  rarely  found 
time  nowadays  for  more  than  a  shake  of  her 
head,  never  very  pretty,  and  at  last  no  longer 
young,  at  the  thought  of  what  she  had 
looked  for,  what  she  had  meant  to  find.  In 
168 


AND  IS  FOUND  IN  GOOD  HANDS 

short,  from  hopeful  girl,  Margaret  Bade 
was,  sensibly  enough,  turned  practical 
woman ;  and  when,  on  clear  afternoons,  with 
his  work  still  to  do,  Aaron  would  take  his 
flute  down  into  the  fields,  she  did  his  chores, 
as  well  as  her  own,  with  the  wise  remark  that 
after  all,  they  had  to  be  done. 

Nevertheless,  when  the  dishes  were 
washed — when  the  shadows  of  evening  crept 
in  past  the  lamp,  no  longer  able  to  exclude 
them,  she  began  to  feel  lonely  and  sad.  And 
as  the  notes  of  Aaron's  flute  mingled  with 
the  night  sounds,  the  chirp  of  crickets,  the 
hum  of  insects,  she  felt,  rather  than  thought, 
"Life  is  so  much  spilt  milk.  And  all  that 
comes  of  fancies,  is  Aaron's  flute,  playing 
down  there  in  the  pasture." 

It  was  to  this  family  that  Mr.  Jeminy 
came  in  the  chilly  dawn,  on  his  way,  appar 
ently,  to  the  ends  of  the  earth,  and,  after 
169 


AUTUMN 


breakfast,  fell  asleep  in  the  hayloft,  leaving 
them  both  gaping  with  pleasure  and  curi 
osity.  For  he  came,  Aaron  had  to  admit, 
like  a  tramp ;  but  spoke,  Margaret  thought, 
like  the  Gospels.  "He's  from  roundabout," 
she  said;  "I  hope  he  doesn't  think  to  try  and 
sell  us  anything.  Men  with  something  to 
sell  always  talk  like  the  minister  first." 

But  Aaron,  with  his  mind  on  the  far  off 
world  across  the  smoky  autumn  hills,  was 
pained  at  such  a  suggestion.  "You're 
wrong,  mother,"  he  said  solemnly.  "No, 
sirree.  He's  not  from  roundabout.  And 
he's  no  common  tramp  either.  He's  come 
a  distance,  I  believe." 

"Then,"  said  Margaret  with  regret,  "I 
suppose  he'll  be  going  on  again." 

Aaron  Bade  stared  attentively  at  one 
brown  hand.  "We  could  use  a  man  on  the 
farm,"  he  said. 

170 


AND  IS  FOUND  IN  GOOD  HANDS 

It  gave  his  wife  no  pleasure  to  be  obliged 
to  agree  with  him. 

"There's  plenty  still  for  a  man  to  do,  after 
you're  done,"  she  said.  But  she  smiled 
almost  at  once;  for  like  the  women  of  that 
north  country,  crabbed  and  twisted  as  their 
own  apple  trees,  she  loved  her  husband  for 
the  trouble  he  gave  her. 

"It's  a  queer  thing,"  said  Aaron;  "he 
has  the  look  of  a  bookish  man.  Like  old 
St.  John  Deakan  down  to  the  Forge,  only 
St.  John  don't  know  anything,  for  all  his 
looks." 

"His  talk  was  elegant,"  Mrs.  Bade 
agreed.  She  stood  still  for  a  moment,  look 
ing  down  at  her  pots  and  pans.  "He's  seen 
a  deal  of  life,  I  dare  say,"  she  added  casu 
ally — so  casually  as  to  make  one  almost 
think  that  she  herself  had  seen  all  she 
wanted  to  see. 

171 


AUTUMN 


"Well,"  said  Aaron,  "that's  what  school 
ing  does  for  a  man.  It  gives  him  a  manner 
of  talking,  along  with  something  to  say." 

Margaret,  bent  over  her  work  again, 
plunged  her  red,  wet  arms  up  to  the  elbow 
in  hot,  soapy  water.  "You'll  never  lack 
talk,  Aaron,"  she  remarked;  "or  suffer  for 
want  of  something  to  say.  But  it  isn't  wash 
ing  my  pots  for  me,  nor  bringing  in  the 


corn  . 


"I'm  going  along  now,"  said  Aaron.  "If 
the  old  man  wakes  before  I'm  back  again, 
don't  hurry  him  off,  mother;  I'd  be  glad 
to  talk  with  him  a  bit  before  he  goes." 

"Who  said  anything  about  hurrying  him 
off?"  cried  Mrs.  Bade.  "He  can  stay  till 
doomsday,  for  all  I  care.  He  can  sit  and 
talk  to  me,  while  you're  blowing  on  your 
flute.  It'll  be  real  companionable." 

And  she  turned  back  to  her  pots  and  pans, 
172 


AND  IS  FOUND  IN  GOOD  HANDS 

a  faint  smile  causing  her  mouth  to  curl  down 
at  one  end,  and  up  at  the  other. 

Mr.  Jeminy  awoke  in  the  afternoon.  It 
was  the  nature  of  this  kind  and  simple  man 
to  accept  without  question  the  hospitality  of 
people  he  had  never  seen  before ;  for  he  felt 
friendly  toward  every  one.  As  he  sat  down 
to  supper  with  the  Bades,  he  bowed  his  head, 
and  offered  up  a  grace,  with  all  his  heart: 

"Abide,  O  Lord,  in  this  house;  and  be 
present  at  the  breaking  of  bread,  in  love  and 
in  kindness.  Amen." 

During  the  meal,  Aaron  Bade  asked  Mr. 
Jeminy  many  questions,  to  discover  what 
the  old  man  hoped  to  do.  "I  suppose,"  he 
said,  "you've  come  a  good  distance." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Jeminy  gravely,  "I  have 
come  a  good  distance." 

Aaron  Bade  gave  his  wife  a  look  which 
said  plainly,  "There,  you  see,  mother." 
173 


AUTUMN 


"Where  is  your  home,  old  man?"  asked 
Mrs.  Bade  kindly. 

"I  have  no  home,"  said  Mr.  Jeminy. 

Aaron  Bade  cleared  his  throat.  "Are  you 
bound  anywhere  in  particular?"  he  asked. 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Jeminy. 

"Then,"  said  Aaron  Bade,  "we'd  admire 
to  have  you  stay  with  us,  if  it's  agreeable  to 
you." 

Mr.  Jeminy  looked  about  him  at  the 
homely  kitchen,  with  its  brown  crockery  set 
away  neatly  on  the  shelves.  "If  I  stay  with 
you,"  he  said,  "I  should  like  to  work  in  the 
fields,  and  help  with  the  sowing  and  the 
harvesting." 

"So  you  may,"  said  Aaron  Bade. 

Mr.  Jeminy  looked  at  Margaret.    "And 
you,  madam?"  he  asked.    "Would  you  care 
for  the  company  of  a  garrulous  old  man  at 
evening  in  your  kitchen?" 
174 


AND  IS  FOUND  IN  GOOD  HANDS 

Margaret  blushed  with  pleasure.  "Yes," 
she  said. 

"Very  well,"  said  Mr.  Jeminy;  "I  will 
stay." 

In  this  fashion  Mr.  Jeminy  settled  down 
at  Bade's  Farm,  as  farm  hand  to  Aaron 
Bade.  At  the  end  of  a  week  he  felt  that 
he  had  nothing  to  regret.  He  was  active 
and  spry,  and  believed  himself  to  be  useful. 
In  fact,  he  could  not  remember  when  he 
had  been  so  happy.  High  on  his  hill,  he 
heard  October's  skyey  gales  go  by  above  his 
head,  and  in  the  noonday  drowse,  watched, 
from  the  shade  of  a  tree,  the  crows  fly  out 
across  the  valley,  with  creaking  wings  and 
harsh,  discordant  cries.  In  the  early  morn 
ing,  he  came  tip-toeing  down  the  stairs ;  from 
the  open  doorway  he  marked  day  rise  above 
the  east  in  bands  of  yellow  light,  and  saw 
the  foggy  clouds  of  dawn  slip  quietly  away, 
175 


AUTUMN 


rising  from  the  valleys,  drifting  across  the 
hills;  in  the  afternoon  he  labored  in  the 
fields,  and  at  night,  his  tired  body  filled  his 
mind  with  comfortable  thoughts. 

On  his  way  to  lunch,  he  stopped  at  the 
woodpile  to  get  an  armful  of  kindling  for 
Mrs.  Bade.  The  sober  way  she  looked  at 
him  as  he  came  in,  hid  from  all  but  herself 
the  almost  voluptuous  pleasure  it  gave  her 
merely  to  be  waited  on,  a  pleasure  she  was 
more  than  half  afraid  to  enjoy,  for  fear  a 
jealous  heaven  might  take  it  away,  and  leave 
her  with  all  her  work  to  do,  and  bad  habits 
besides. 

Therefore,  as  she  ladled  out  potatoes,  two 
to  a  plate,  she  seemed,  to  look  at  her,  busier 
than  ever;  and  far  from  being  grateful, 
might  have  been  used  to  favors  every  day 
of  her  life,  whereas  all  the  while  she  was  say- 
176 


AND  IS  FOUND  IN  GOOD  HANDS 

ing  ecstatically  to  herself,  "Lord,  make  me 
humble." 

For  she  saw  in  Mr.  Jeminy  all  she  had 
fancied  as  a  girl,  and  lost  hope  in  as  a 
woman.  Life  .  .  .  life  was,  then,  to  be  had 
— leastways,  a  view  of  it,  a  good  view  of  it — 
was  to  be  heard  of,  by  special  act  of  Grace, 
on  Bade's  Farm,  at  Adams'  Forge — of  all 
places.  So  she  dressed  in  her  neatest,  and 
was  kinder  than  ever  to  Aaron,  who  was 
missing  it.  For  she  felt  it  was  all  just  for 
her;  she  alone  saw  Mr.  Jeminy  for  what 
he  was,  a  grand,  unusual  peephole  on  the 
world.  It  was  her  own  private  peep,  she 
thought.  But  she  was  wrong.  Aaron  was 
peeping  as  hard  as  she,  and  pitying  her,  as 
she  was  pitying  him,  for  all  he  thought  she 
was  missing. 

As  for  Mr.  Jeminy,  he  let  them  think 
177 


AUTUMN 


what  they  pleased.  At  first  he  was  silent, 
out  of  shame.  But  later  he  enjoyed  it  as 
much  as  they  did.  "In  Ceylon,"  he  would 
say,  "the  tea  fields  .  .  ." 

One  day,  a  week  after  his  arrival,  Mr. 
Jeminy  took  the  plow  horse,  Elijah,  to  the 
village  to  be  shod.  There  the  fragrance  of 
wood  fires  mingled  with  a  sweeter  smell 
from  barns  and  kitchens.  As  it  was  the 
hour  when  school  let  out,  the  yard  in  front 
of  the  schoolhouse  was  filled  with  children 
on  their  way  home;  laughing  and  calling  to 
each  other,  their  voices  rose  in  minor  glees 
along  the  road,  like  the  squabble  of  birds. 
And  Mr.  Jeminy,  in  front  of  the  smithy, 
watched  them  go  by,  while  his  thoughts  ran 
as  follows: 

"There,"  he  said  to  himself,  "its  arms  full 
of  texts,  goes  the  new  world.  Within  those 
careless  heads  and  happy  hearts  we  must 
178 


AND  IS  FOUND  IN  GOOD  HANDS 

look  for  courage,  for  wisdom  and  for  sacri 
fice.  Yet  I  believe  they  have  the  same 
thoughts  as  anybody  else.  That  is  to  say, 
they  suppose  it  is  God's  business  to  look 
after  them.  Yes,  they  are  like  their  parents : 
they  are  carried  away  by  what  they  are 
doing,  which  they  do  not  believe  could  be 
done  otherwise.  One  can  see  with  what 
coldness,  or  even  blows,  they  receive  the 
advances  of  other  little  children,  who  wish 
to  play  with  them.  Well,  as  for  those 
others,  they  go  off  at  once,  and  play  by 
themselves.  One  of  them,  whose  hat  has 
been  taken  by  the  rest,  is  digging  in  the 
earth  with  a  bent  twig,  sharpened  at  one  end. 
Possibly  he  is  digging  for  a  treasure,  which 
will  be  of  no  value  to  anybody  but  himself. 
When  he  is  older,  he  will  be  sorry  he  is  not 
a  child  again." 

At  this   point,   Elijah   being   shod    and 
179 


AUTUMN 


ready,  he  ceased  his  reflections  and  went  to 
call  for  Aaron  at  the  post-office.  As  they 
rode  home  together,  the  old  schoolmaster, 
sunk  in  reverie,  remained  silent.  But  Aaron 
wanted  to  talk,  now  that  he  had  some  one 
to  talk  to. 

"We'll  get  around  to  the  wood  to 
morrow,  and  lay  in  another  cord  or  two." 

"As  you  like." 

"They're  saying  down  to  the  store  that 
feed  will  be  higher  than  ever  this  winter. 
I  suppose  we'd  better  lay  in  a  store.  I  can 
sell  a  few  barrels  of  potatoes,  though  I  did 
want  to  save  them." 

Mr.  Jeminy  roused  himself  with  an  effort. 
"I  had  the  horse  shod  all  around,"  he  said. 

Aaron  nodded.  "I  guess  it's  just  as 
well,"  he  replied.  "Did  you  ask  about  fix 
ing  the  harrow?" 

"It  will  take  a  week,"  said  Mr.  Jeminy. 
180 


AND  IS  FOUND  IN  GOOD  HANDS 

"I  said  to  go  ahead,  figuring  that  we  had 
the  whole  winter  before  us." 

"We  could  do  with  a  new  harrow,"  said 
Aaron,  "only  there's  no  way  to  pay  for  it." 

Mr.  Jeminy  shook  the  reins  over  Elijah's 
back.  "I  have  a  little  money,"  he  began, 
"laid  away  ..." 

"You're  very  kind,"  said  Aaron,  "but  I 
don't  figure  to  take  advantage  of  it.  Still, 
living's  hard;  so  much  trouble.  Take  me; 
here  I  am  bound  down  to  a  farm's  got  as 
many  rocks  in  it  as  anything  else.  I've 
been  as  far  south  as  Attleboro,  but  I've 
never  had  a  view  of  the  world,  like  you've 
had.  I'll  die  as  I've  lived,  without  anything 
to  be  grateful  for,  so  far  as  I  can  see." 

"You've  had  more  to  be  grateful  for  than 
I  ever  had,"  said  Mr.  Jeminy  simply,  "and 
I'm  not  complaining." 

"Go  along,"  said  Aaron;  "you're  speak- 
181 


AUTUMN 


ing  out  of  kindness.  But  it  doesn't  fool 
me  any.  I  know  you've  led  a  wandering 
life,  Mr.  Jeminy.  But  I'd  admire  to  see  a 
little  something  of  the  world  myself." 

Above  them  the  smoke  from  Aaron's 
chimney,  thin  and  blue,  rose  bending  like  an 
Indian  pipe  in  the  still  air.  And  Mr.  Jem 
iny  gazed  at  it  in  silence,  before  replying: 

"You  have  had  the  good  things  of  life, 
Aaron  Bade." 

"Have  I?"  said  Aaron  bitterly.  "I'm 
sure  I  didn't  know  it.  What  are  the  good 
things  of  life,  Mr.  Jeminy?" 

"Love,"  said  Mr.  Jeminy,  "peace,  the 
quiet  of  the  heart,  the  work  of  one's  hands. 
Perhaps  it  is  human  to  wish  for  more.  But 
to  be  human  is  not  always  to  be  wise.  Do 
you  desire  to  see  the  world,  Aaron  Bade? 
Soon  you  would  ask  to  be  home  again." 
182 


AND  IS  FOUND  IN  GOOD  HANDS 

"Well,  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said 
Aaron. 

"Ah,"  said  Mr.  Jeminy,  "love  is  best  of 
all." 

And  once  again  he  relapsed  into  silence. 

In  the  evening  he  drove  the  cows  in.  High 
up  on  Hemlock,  Aaron,  among  his  slow, 
thin  tunes,  thought  to  himself:  "There  go 
the  cows.  Mr.  Jeminy  understands  me; 
he's  a  traveled  man."  And  he  played  his 
flute  harder  than  ever,  because  Mr.  Jeminy, 
who  had  seen,  as  Aaron  thought,  all  Aaron 
had  wanted  to  see,  breathed  the  airs  of  for 
eign  lands,  and  sailed  the  seven  seas,  was 
setting  Aaron's  cows  to  right,  in  Aaron's 
tumbled  barn. 

In  the  kitchen,  Margaret,  going  to  light 
the  lamp,  smiled  at  her  thoughts,  which  were 
timid  and  gay.  She  was  happy  because  Mr. 
183 


AUTUMN 


Jeminy,  who  had  seen  so  many  elegant 
women,  helped  her  with  her  apple  jellies, 
and  brought  her  kindlings  for  the  stove. 

When  the  cows  were  milked,  Mr.  Jeminy 
came  out  of  the  barn,  and  stood  looking  up 
at  the  sky,  yellow  and  green,  with  its  prom 
ise  of  frost.  "A  cold  night,"  he  said  to  him 
self,  "and  a  bright  morning."  He  could 
hear  the  wind  rising  in  the  west.  "Winter 
is  not  far  off,"  he  said,  and  he  carried  the 
two  warm,  foaming  milkpails  into  the 
kitchen. 

As  he  was  eating  his  supper,  a  wagon 
came  clattering  down  the  road  and  stopped 
at  the  door.  "There's  Ellery  Deakan  back 
from  Milford,"  said  Margaret  at  the  win 
dow.  "I  wonder  what  he  wants  at  this  time 
of  night.  Looks  to  be  somebody  with  him. 
Go  and  see,  Mr.  Jeminy.  I've  the  pudding 
to  attend  to." 

184 


XII 

MRS. 
WICKET 

MRS.  GRUMBLE  was  dying.  She 
lay  without  moving,  one  wasted 
hand  holding  tightly  to  the  fingers 
of  Mrs.  Wicket,  who  sat  beside  the  bed. 
There,  where  Mrs.   Grumble  had  worked 
and  scolded  for  twenty  years,  all  was  still; 
while  the  clock  on  the  dresser,  like  a  solemn 
footstep,  seemed  to  deepen  the  silence  with 
its  single,  hollow  beat. 

But  if  it  was  quiet  in  the  schoolmaster's 
house,  it  was  far  from  being  quiet  in  the 
village,  where  Mrs.  Tomkins  was  going  hur 
riedly  from  house  to  house  in  search  of  Mrs. 
Wicket's  runaway  daughter.  Mrs.  Wicket, 
185 


AUTUMN 


who  was  dozing,  did  not  hear  the  anxious 
voices  calling  everywhere  for  Juliet.  To 
Mrs.  Grumble,  the  sound  was  like  the 
dwindling  murmur  of  a  world  with  which 
she  was  nearly  done.  She  felt  that  her  end 
Was  approaching,  and  remarked: 

"I  hope  I  haven't  given  you  too  much 
trouble,  Mrs.  Wicket." 

Mrs.  Wicket  tried  to  assure  Mrs. 
Grumble  that  she  had  not  been  any  trouble 
to  her.  But  Mrs.  Grumble  said  weakly: 

"Maybe  when  I  was  out  of  my  head  .  .  ." 

"Don't  you  fret  yourself  a  mite  about 
that,"  cried  Mrs.  Wicket;  "for  that's  all 
over.  Now  you're  going  to  get  well." 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Grumble,  "no,  I'm  not 
going  to  get  well.  I'm  going  to  die."  She 
thought  over,  in  silence,  what  she  had  just 
said,  and  it  appeared  to  satisfy  her.  At  the 
thought  of  death  she  was  calm  and  willing. 
186 


MRS.  WICKET 


"I  remember,"  she  remarked,  "how  I  used 
to  have  a  horror  of  dying.  I  was  afraid  to 
die,  without  having  done  anything  to  make 
me  out  different  from  anybody  else.  But  I 
guess  nobody's  any  different  when  it  comes 
to  dying,  Mrs.  Wicket.  It  feels  easy  and 
natural." 

"Don't  you  so  much  as  even  think  of  it," 
said  Mrs.  Wicket. 

Mrs.  Grumble  smiled.  "There's  no  use 
trying  to  fool  me,"  she  declared.  "I'm  not 
afraid  any  more.  I'd  like  to  see  Mr.  Jem- 
iny  before  I  go.  I'd  like  to  know  he  was 
in  good  hands.  I'd  like  to  think  you'd  look 
after  him  a  bit,  Mrs.  Wicket,  when  I'm 
gone." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Wicket,  "set  your  mind 
at  rest." 

"You've  been  very  kind  to  me,"  said  Mrs. 
Grumble,  with  difficulty.  "You've  had  a 
187 


AUTUMN 


hard  time  of  it  here  in  Hillsboro.  You're  a 
good  woman,  Mrs.  Wicket.  I'm  glad  you'll 
be  here  for  him  when  he  comes  home.  I  took 
care  of  him  for  twenty  years.  As  though 
he  were  my  own." 

"I'll  care  for  him  the  same,"  said  Mrs. 
Wicket,  "as  though  he  were  my  own." 

Mrs.  Grumble  seemed  to  be  content  with 
this  promise,  for  she  remained  for  some  time 
sunk  in  silence.  At  last  she  said,  "He'll 
come  in  time  for  me  to  see  him  again.  He 
won't  leave  me  to  die  alone,  not  after  I 
took  care  of  him  for  twenty  years. 

"I  remember  the  time  he  brought  me  a  bit 
of  lace  from  the  fair  over  to  Milford.  He 
used  to  give  me  a  lot  of  trouble.  But  he 
didn't  forget  to  bring  me  home  a  piece  of 
lace  from  the  fair.  I  put  it  on  my  petti 
coat. 

188 


MBS.  WICKET 


"He's    on    his    way    home    now,    Mrs. 
Wicket:  yes,  I  can  feel  he's  coming  home." 

Mrs.  Wicket,  who  had  been  up  with  Mrs. 
Grumble  the  night  before,  let  her  head 
droop  forward  on  her  breast.  "I  don't 
doubt  it,"  she  said.  And  in  the  silence  of 
the  sickroom,  she  presently  fell  asleep.  Mrs. 
Grumble  lay  with  wide  open  eyes,  staring 
at  the  door  through  which  Mr.  Jeminy  was 
to  come.  She  felt  quiet  and  happy;  it 
seemed  to  her  that  her  pain  was  already  over 
and  done  with.  Framed  in  the  doorway, 
in  the  yellow  lamplight,  she  beheld  the  fan 
cies  of  her  youth,  the  memories  of  the  past. 
She  saw  again  the  woman  she  had  been,  and 
watched,  with  eyes  filled  with  compassion, 
her  early  sorrows,  and  the  troubles  of  her 
later  years.  "It  was  all  of  no  account,"  she 
said  to  herself,  "but  it  doesn't  matter  now." 
189 


AUTUMN 


And  she  set  herself  to  wait  in  patience  for 
Mr.  Jeminy,  who  she  never  doubted  would 
come  to  help  her  die. 

Meanwhile  the  schoolmaster,  in  Aaron 
Bade's  wagon,  was  rattling  along  the  road, 
with  Juliet  tight  asleep  in  his  arms.  As  he 
drew  near  his  home,  he  saw  in  the  distance 
Barly  Hill,  and  the  lights  of  Barly  Farm 
shining  across  the  valley.  "I  am  coming 
home  again,"  he  said  to  them;  "I  have  no 
longer  any  pride.  So  now  I  know  that  I 
am  an  old  man." 

But  later  a  feeling  of  peace  took  posses 
sion  of  his  heart.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "I  am  an 
old  man.  The  world  is  not  my  affair  any 
more.  I  belong  to  yesterday,  with  its  tri 
umphs  and  its  failures ;  I  must  share  in  the 
glory,  such  as  it  is,  of  what  has  been  done. 
The  future  is  in  the  hands  of  this  child,  sound 
asleep  by  my  side.  It  is  in  your  hands, 
190 


MRS.  WICKET 


Anna  Early,  and  yours,  Thomas  Frye.  But 
you  must  do  better  than  I  did,  and  those 
with  whom  I  quarreled.  To  youth  is  given 
the  burden  and  the  pain.  Only  the  old  are 
happy  to-day. 

"Children,  children,  what  will  become  of 
you?" 

When  Mr.  Jeminy,  with  Juliet  in  his 
arms,  strode  in  through  Mrs.  Grumble's 
door,  Mrs.  Wicket  rose  to  her  feet,  her 
hands  pressed  to  her  bosom  with  delight  and 
alarm.  Mr.  Jemmy  gave  Juliet  to  her 
mother.  "Take  the  child  home,"  he  said. 
Then  with  timid,  hesitant  steps,  he  ap 
proached  Mrs.  Grumble's  bed. 

"You've  been  a  long  time  coming,"  she 
said.  "I'm  tired." 

"I'm  here  now,"  replied  Mr.  Jeminy;  "I 
am  not  going  away  any  more." 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Grumble,  "you'd  better 
191 


AUTUMN 


stay  home  and  attend  to  things.  I  won't  be 
here  much  longer." 

Mr.  Jeminy  wanted  to  say  "nonsense," 
but  he-  was  unable  to  speak.  Instead  he 
took  Mrs.  Grumble's  hand  in  both  of  his. 
"Are  you  going  to  leave  me,  dear  friend?" 
he  asked. 

Mrs.  Grumble  smiled;  then  she  gave  a 
sigh.  "Look  what  you  called  me,"  she  said. 

And  they  were  both  silent,  thinking  of 
the  past  together.  In  the  distance  the  crisp 
footsteps  of  Mrs.  Wicket  died  away  down 
the  hill.  And  presently  nothing  was  to  be 
heard  but  the  steady  ticking  of  the  clock  on 
the  mantel.  Then  Mr.  Jeminy,  for  once, 
could  find  nothing  to  say.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  instead  of  the  clock's  ticking,  he 
heard  the  footsteps  of  death  in  the  house, 
on  the  stair  .  .  .  tik,  tok,  tik,  tok  .  .  .  And 
he  sighed,  with  sadness  and  horror.  "Ah," 
192 


MRS.  WICKET 


my  friend,"  he  thought,  "are  you  as  fright 
ened  as  I  am?" 

Presently  he  saw  that  Mrs.  Grumble  was 
trying  to  lift  herself  up  in  bed.  "I'm  going 
now,"  she  said.  Her  voice  was  low,  but 
resonant.  "Mrs.  Wicket  will  look  after  you. 
She's  a  good  woman,  Mr.  Jeminy.  My 
mind's  at  peace.  I  never  knew  death  was 
so  simple  and  ordinary.  It's  almost  like 
nothing." 

She  sank  back;  her  voice  gave  out  and 
she  began  to  cough.  "You  will  only  tire 
yourself  by  talking,"  said  Mr.  Jeminy. 
"Rest  now.  Then  in  the  morning  .  .  ." 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Grumble  faintly, 
"there'll  be  no  morning  for  me,  unless  it's 
the  morning  of  the  Lord.  Not  where  I'm 
going." 

"You  are  going  where  I,  too,  must  go," 
said  Mr.  Jeminy.  "You  are  going  a  little 
193 


AUTUMN 


before  me.  Soon  I  shall  come  hurrying 
after  you." 

"It's  nearly  over,"  said  Mrs.  Grumble. 
"I  did  what  I  could."  Her  mind  began  to 
wander;  she  spoke  some  words  to  herself. 

"You,  God,"  said  Mr.  Jeminy  aloud, 
"this  is  your  doing.  Then  come  and  be 
present ;  receive  the  forgiveness  of  this  good 
woman,  to  whom  you  gave,  in  this  life,  pov 
erty  and  sacrifice." 

"Please,"  whispered  Mrs.  Grumble, 
"speak  of  God  with  more  respect."  They 
were  her  last  words;  it  was  the  end.  A 
spasm  of  coughing  shook  her ;  for  a  moment 
she  seemed  anxious  to  speak.  But  as  Mr. 
Jeminy  bent  over  her,  her  breath  failed; 
her  head  fell  back,  and  with  a  single,  fright 
ened  glance,  Mrs.  Grumble  passed  away, 
without  saying  what  she  had  intended. 

Mr.  Jeminy  closed  her  eyes,  and  folded 
194 


MRS.  WICKET 


her  hands  across  her  breast.  "She  is  gone 
already,"  he  thought ;  "she  is  far  away.  She 
has  pressed  ahead,  so  swiftly,  beyond  sight 
or  hearing." 

He  bent  his  head.  "You  made  me  com 
fortable  in  my  life,  Mrs.  Grumble,"  he  said, 
"yet  at  the  end  I  could  do  nothing  for  you. 
But  you  will  not  think  badly  of  me  for  that. 

"Now  you  are  hurrying  through  eternity. 
To  you,  these  few  slow  hours  before  the 
dawn  are  no  different  from  to-morrow  or 
yesterday;  they  will  never  pass. 

"Do  you  see,  at  last,  the  meaning  of  the 
spectacle  you  have  just  quitted?  Do  you 
understand  what  I,  for  all  my  wisdom,  do 
not  understand?  You  are  free  to  ask  God 
to  explain  it  to  you;  you  can  say,  'I  saw 
armies  with  banners,  and  scholars  with  their 
books.'  Perhaps  he  will  tell  you  the  mean 
ing  of  it.  But  for  us,  who  remain,  it  has 
195 


AUTUMN 


no  meaning.  Well,  we  say,  this  is  life.  We 
laugh,  applaud,  talk  together,  and  think 
about  ourselves.  And  one  by  one  we  slip 
away,  no  wiser  than  before. 

"We  are  like  the  bees,  who  work  from 
dawn  till  dark,  gathering  honey  in  the  fields 
and  in  the  woods.  But  we  are  not  as  wise 
as  the  bees,  for  each  one  grasps  what  he 
can,  and  cries,  'this  is  mine.'  Then  seeing 
that  it  is  of  no  use  to  him,  he  adds,  'What 
will  you  give  me  for  it  ?' ' 

And  he  began  to  think  of  the  past.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  he  was  in  school  again. 
It  was  spring;  and  the  children  came  romp 
ing  into  the  schoolroom,  their  arms  full  of 
books  and  flowers.  Summer  passed;  he  saw 
Anna  Barly  crying  by  the  roadside,  under 
the  gray  sky.  He  heard  himself  saying  to 
Mrs.  Grumble:  "Yes,  that's  right,  stop  up 
your  ears  .  .  ."  And  he  saw  himself  walk- 
196 


MBS.  WICKET 


ing  toward  Milford  in  the  moonlight,  under 
the  falling  leaves.  "Who,  now,"  he  thought, 
"will  drive  me  out  of  doors  because  my  room 
is  in  disorder,  or  burn,  when  I  am  away,  the 
scraps  of  paper  on  which  I  have  scribbled 
my  memoranda?" 

He  bowed  his  head.  "Rest  quietly,  Mrs. 
Grumble,"  he  said.  "Your  troubles  are 
over.  For  you  there  is  neither  doubt  nor 
grief;  life  does  not  matter  to  you  any  more. 
Nor  does  it  matter  very  much  to  me.  For 
there  is  no  one  now  to  care  what  I  do.  I 
am  no  trouble  to  anybody." 

The  chilly  breath  of  morning  filled  the 
valley  with  mist,  fine,  gray,  imperceptible  in 
the  faint  light  of  dawn.  And  a  farmer's 
cart,  as  it  rattled  down  the  road,  woke,  in 
his  chair,  the  old  schoolmaster  from  the 
reverie  into  which  he  had  fallen. 

Faint  and  clear  the  early  lights  of  the  vil- 
197 


AUTUMN 


lage  went  out,  leaving  the  valley  empty  and 
cold.  A  freight  train  whistled  at  the  junc 
tion,  and  crept,  with  tolling  bell,  over  the 
switches,  to  the  south. 

The  sun,  rising,  poured  its  yellow  light 
into  Mrs.  Grumble's  room,  illuminating  the 
bed,  with  its  silent  burden,  and  the  still 
figure  huddled  in  the  chair.  Slowly,  and 
with  difficulty,  Mr.  Jeminy  got  to  his  feet 
and  crossed  to  the  window.  There  his  gaze 
encountered  Mrs.  Wicket,  coming  up  the 
hill. 

Blowing  on  his  hands,  Mr.  Jeminy  went 
to  meet  her  in  the  early  sunshine. 


THE  END 


198 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

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30Aug'62RR 

»""&  IT"  (~*  "*  '"**'     ' 

Due  end  of  WINTER  Quarter     MAR          >j\ 
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LD  21A-50m-3,'62 
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University  of  California 

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